


a long way back to the light

by slytherincosette



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, References to Depression, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Break Up, Underage Drinking, eddie is going to FIND HIMSELF, happy ending i swear, i'll add tags as i go because who knows, no one goes through with it but it is discussed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-07-16 15:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherincosette/pseuds/slytherincosette
Summary: For Eddie, senior year is supposed to be an under-the-radar kind of year. He's been avoiding all of his friends for months and his mental health has been steadily declining. Why rock the boat and make everything worse? His plans consist of getting into the local community college (easy) and avoiding Richie, the worst sort-of-ex-boyfriend ever (considerably harder.)Then Bill drags him to a stupid party, and Eddie's plans are thrown through a loop. Suddenly, "under-the-radar" seems like a cop-out. Eddie decides, once and for all, to stop settling for decent, for alright, forenough.Eddie's going to take his life back if it fucking kills him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so excited to share this with y'all! this started out as a oneshot based on "michael in the bathroom" from be more chill and it's turned into an absolute monster of a fic so here ya go. takes place over the losers' senior year. it is very focused on the losers as a whole and their friendship dynamic, and it will explore eddie's relationship with each of them. endgame reddie with a happy ending because i'm a sucker, but don't worry. issa slow burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> of all the characters at school,  
> i am not the one who the story's about.  
> why can't someone just help me out?  
> and teach me how to thrive.  
> help me to more than survive.  
> -more than survive, be more chill musical

Mornings are hard.

Every inch of Eddie’s body is screaming to stay where it is, huddled under a mass of blankets. Rolling out of bed takes so much energy these days that Eddie is amazed he has any left to stand, to carry himself over to his closet, to get dressed. One foot in front of the other. Every step feels like a thousand miles.

He has no appetite. He rarely does, now. His mother sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him, pushing at his hair, tutting over the bags under his eyes. “Sweetheart, are you feeling alright?” she asks, pressing a palm to his forehead.

Eddie swats her away, smiles good-naturedly, says, “I’m fine, Ma. Stop worrying.”

His mother laughs, a high pitched, nervous sound. “Eddie, love, you know I’ll never stop worrying about you. I just love you too much, that’s all.”

It sounds like a threat. Eddie’s smile tightens around the edges. “I know, Ma. I love you too.”

Eddie Kaspbrak is seventeen years old. He has no idea what he wants to do with his life, or if he will even get to make that choice for himself. Maybe his mother will take that away from him too. She's already forcing him into community college, so who even fucking cares?

Every morning feels like a ton of bricks has been dropped on his chest, holding him in place and slowly suffocating him.

“Eddie, love, take a nap when you get home,” his mother says, “Your poor body needs rest. You look exhausted, sweetheart.”

She's right. Eddie is always, always tired. _Exhausted_ , even. Even existing feels like too much.

Eddie is so tired of being tired.

-

Eddie shuts his locker with a sigh, not at all surprised to find Bill on the other side. Bill’s face is pinched in determination. Eddie sighs, deeper this time, and turns to face his best friend. “No, Bill, Jesus Christ.”

“Eds, come on,” Bill whines, and Eddie flinches at the _Eds_ but doesn’t comment. “It’s gonna be the biggest party of the fall, you know Greta’s parties are fuckin’ bangers.”

“Will it really make that big of a difference if I don’t go?” 

Eddie tries to side step Bill and push past, but Bill catches him easily. He slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulders and starts to lead him to the other end of the hall, where he can see Stan waiting in his baseball uniform. “Yes!” Bill says, giving Eddie a little shake, “Of course it makes a difference, asshole. I need my wingman.”

“You’ve been dating Stan for two years,” Eddie tells him, completely unimpressed. 

“Well, yeah, but he could get sick of me like _that_ ,” Bill snaps his fingers, voice dismissive. They reach Stan, who scoffs loudly. “I need your expertise to help keep him interested. You know how jocks are, dude.” 

Stan shuts his own locker and rolls his eyes. “Says the fucking lacrosse captain,” he sniffs, but there’s laughter in his eyes. Bill reaches out and snatches Stan’s baseball cap off his head, putting it on backwards. Stan makes a grab for it and misses, laughing. Bill takes it off and holds it above his head, making terrible kissy noises until Stan gives up and kisses him hello. Eddie watches, decidedly uninterested and vaguely disgusted. 

“Tell Eddie to come to Greta’s,” Bill says, settling the hat back on Stan’s head.

“Come to Greta’s,” Stan parrots back dutifully. He smiles brightly at Eddie, batting Bill’s hands away. 

“You guys are so convincing,” Eddie says, deadpan. 

“I’ll pick you up,” Bill offers, eyes pleading, “Please, Eddie? I barely see you anymore. I miss you, dude. You’ve like, disappeared on us.”

That’s because the rest of the losers aren’t _losers_ anymore, Eddie thinks. They all have lives, things to do, sports to play, clubs to run. Eddie has nothing except the shitty game show reruns he watches with his mom after school. And yeah, maybe Eddie has been isolating himself a little bit, but it’s fucking depressing to watch his friends live their lives from what feels like a glass enclosure. 

Stan joined the baseball team in eighth grade, and there’s no better pitcher in all of Maine. He’s got university scouts tripping over themselves for a chance to sign him. Bill’s captain of the lacrosse team because of course he is. It’s Bill, and Bill was always meant to lead. Bev joined the marching band and has been kicking ass as the only girl in the drumline since freshman year. Mike basically runs the school because he lead the stupid football team to a championship two years in a row. Ben’s an award winning wrestler _and_ an award winning poet, which is just unfair. How is one guy good at so many things?

And Richie, well. Eddie doesn’t know what the fuck Richie’s doing, because Richie doesn’t talk to him anymore.

Richie, who used to orbit around Eddie like he was the sun, hasn’t said more than “hey” in weeks. Hasn’t texted Eddie any dumb pictures or called him at 2 AM to try out a new voice. Hasn’t climbed up the tree outside Eddie’s window or waxed poetic about Eddie’s hair or kidnapped him for midnight drives through the countryside. Hasn’t done any of these things or even smiled at Eddie, really _smiled_ at Eddie, in months.

No “Eds,” no “Eddie Spaghetti,” or any other terrible variations of nicknames that Eddie used to claim to hate but now sorely, sorely misses.

Richie stopped talking to Eddie gradually. It was around the time everyone else in the school finally realized Richie was funny, which is bullshit, because Eddie’s _always_ known that Richie was funny. But Richie’s always been too concerned with what others think and it finally caught up to him, up to them. Just when things finally started to fall together, when Richie finally started to acknowledge that the something between them was _something_ , he’d ripped himself away and never looked back. 

Eddie thinks that he shouldn’t be surprised. Friends drift apart all the time. People break up. Whatever they were for those perfect few weeks, who cares? It’s highschool, man, in a year it won’t matter. But right now, it hurts. It hurts so badly it feels like Eddie’s been stabbed but his body just won’t fucking die and he’s doomed to suffer forever. Which is dramatic, yeah, but is it really? Is it dramatic when every morning feels like pulling teeth? When dragging himself out of bed is torture? When even just going through the motions of living is too hard?

The school psychiatrist thinks Eddie is depressed. Eddie thinks that’s bullshit.

“Earth to Eddie,” Stan says, snapping fingers in Eddie’s face. He looks worried.

“I’m fine,” Eddie says immediately, blinking wildly. “Sorry.”

“So you’ll come?” Bill asks, as single-minded as always. “I can pick you up. I’m DD tonight because I owe Ben. I threw up in his shoes last time.”  
He looks so hopeful that Eddie doesn’t have the heart to say that he’d rather fucking die than go to this stupid party.

“Yeah,” Eddie says weakly. Bill’s answering smile is blinding, and almost worth it. Almost. “Yeah, Bill, I’ll go.”

“Holy shit,” Stan says, “Really?”

Bill swats at him quickly. “Shut _up_ , Stanley. Don’t give him any opening to back out.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Eddie says, though Bill is totally right. He already regrets this wholeheartedly. 

“Definitely no backing out,” Stan says firmly, eyes landing on Eddie, who holds up two hands in surrender.

Bill throws his arm back around Eddie, jostling him slightly. “We’re gettin’ the band back together!”

Which means all of the losers are going, then. Which means--

“Uh,” Eddie starts, “Is, uh--”

Bill deflates a little. “If he’s going, it’s not with us. I really don’t know.”

Stan makes an annoyed noise. “He’s such a fucking flake, lately.”

“At least he still talks to you at all,” Eddie mutters, hoisting his backpack strap higher on his shoulder. He looks down at his feet, thinks distantly that he should probably clean his keds soon.

Bill winces a little. Stan rolls his eyes, undeterred. “Sometimes I wonder who’s luckier.”

“Richie kind of sucks now,” Bill agrees, nodding sagely. It doesn’t make Eddie feel better.

“Richie’s always sucked,” Eddie says shortly. “I’m going to be late to class. I’ll see you guys later.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before slipping underneath Bill’s arm and ducking around Stan. He pushes through the crowd, finding comfort in the feeling of disappearing. “Pick you up at nine!” Bill yells after him. Eddie’s stomach flips and he ducks his head. 

“What, got a hot date tonight, Billiam?”

The voice almost knocks Eddie off of his feet. Glancing back, he sees Richie leaning against Stan’s locker, all effortless cool and curls flying everywhere. Eddie knows it's all a front. Richie has never been effortlessly _anything_ in his entire life. And Eddie would bet a hundred bucks that Richie was waiting until he left to make his grand entrance.

“Yeah, with your mom,” Bill shoots back.

“Pretty sure that’s my line, but sure, I’ll make sure Mags isn’t too drunk when you pick her up.”

“Fuck off, Rich.”

Eddie doesn’t want to hear the rest. He presses on towards his seventh period class, away from Richie. 

-

Eddie drops his bike on his front lawn, takes a shaky breath. Going to this party tonight means hell from his mother. Going out _at all_ means hell from his mother, but the fact that Bill is picking him up makes it worse. Bill and Stan used to be his mother’s favorites out of all of his friends--Ben was too unhealthy, Bev was too slutty, Richie was too loud, and Mike was too not white. His mom was even generous enough to ignore the fact that Stan was Jewish because he was just _such_ a nice and well-mannered boy. Once they started dating, all bets were off. They were written off as “the gays,” who would inevitably rub off on Eddie and turn her poor baby into a raging homosexual who would never give her grandkids.

Eddie figured out he was gay way before Bill and Stan started dating, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Going out with Bill and Stan will send his mother into hysterics, and Eddie tries to avoid that as much as possible. It would be so much easier to walk inside, plop down on the couch, and settle in for a night of shitty game shows and soap operas.

Eddie Kaspbrak makes a decision, then and there, staring up at own house like it’s a death sentence.

Eddie Kaspbrak wants to live his own life, and it’s going to start with this stupid fucking party.

“Ma?” Eddie calls out, pushing the door open. He lets his bag drop to the floor and toes off his shoes, leaving them in the entranceway. 

“In here, sweetheart!” his mother calls back, voice honey-sweet. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. As if she’d be anywhere else she’d be. 

Eddie walks into his living room and sits on the very edge of the couch. His mother frowns. “Get comfortable, darling, The Price is Right is coming on.”

“Ma,” Eddie says, “I’m going out tonight.”

His mother stiffens. “Why would you do that, Eddie-bear?” she asks, mildly. Her mouth has been made into a set line. 

Eddie braces himself, says, “Stan and Bill invited me to hang out.”

His mother sucks in a sharp breath. “The homosexuals?”

“Yes, Ma, the homosexuals,” Eddie snaps, then holds his breath.

His mother presses a hand to her heart. She gives him a wounded look and asks, eyes wet, “Why are you yelling at me, Eddie?”

Eddie counts to ten, says, “I’m sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean to yell.”

She settles back, momentarily satisfied with the apology. “I wish you would find better friends. We got rid of that Tozier boy, didn’t we?”

Eddie grits his teeth. “Yeah. I don’t...we don’t really talk anymore.”

“Good,” his mother sniffs, “He was always a troublemaker. You were too good for him. At least those homosexual boys have manners.”

Eddie clenches his fists. “Bill and Stan are good people, Ma.”

“How good can they be when they’re riddled with sin, Edward?” His mother asks, eyes wide and earnest, “You know I just want you to be safe, sweetheart. What if they attempt anything with you?”

“They’re a little too busy dating each other to try and date me.”

His mother considers this. “Hm,” she says, non-committal. Eddie counts this as a win.

She falls asleep a few excruciating hours later, which allows Eddie to make his escape. He takes the stairs two at a time, hoping to God his mother doesn’t wake up. He shuts his bedroom door behind him and heaves a relieved sigh. Safe at last.

His phone chimes. It’s Mike.

_ur going?????????!!!!!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???_

Eddie snorts, feels a genuine smile tug at his lips.

_bill’s dragging me_

Mike replies instantly.

_fuckin good!!!!!!!! i miss u, fool. can’t wait to see ur beautiful face_

Eddie lets the smile take over his face. He knows he spends most of his time feeling sorry for himself and it’s not fair, really, to his friends. They’re good, they love him. They miss him when he doesn’t show up. It’s not their fault they found things they’re good at. It’s not their fault Eddie is essentially useless. 

He’s not cool, and he never will be, but no one bothers him because Mike would kick their asses if anyone tried. He’s not in any clubs, doesn’t fall into any groups. He gets invites by default, but no one talks to him once he gets there. Eddie is a background character in a teen movie who never gets a name or a story of his own. He’s stuck in-between, floating away from his friends because isolation feels easier than watching his friends, the best people in his life, find themselves and thrive while Eddie drowns.

It fucks him up to think that he could have been something more than just the dead weight Bill and the others drag around behind them. 

Eddie Kaspbrak knows he can’t keep living the way he is now, this horrible stasis rooting him in place.

So Eddie Kaspbrak gets off of his bed, heads to his closet, pulls out his nicest jeans and his nicest flannel, the one Bev says brings out his eyes. He changes quickly, feeling a weird sort of energy humming under his skin. He does his hair, gels it up the way Bill once showed him. He spins toward the mirror and squints, cocks his head to the side.

“I look good,” Eddie tells himself, and is amazed when it feels true.

There’s a loud honk outside, which means Bill is here. Eddie can hear the rumble of Bill’s shitty engine and the muffled bass pounding through his open window. Eddie pulls on his keds and hops down the stairs on one foot, trying to tie his left shoe. He bumps into the wall and staggers a bit. His mother’s voice floats up from the living room, concerned as always. “Eddie-bear? Are you alright, sweetie? Who’s outside?”

“Bill, Ma,” Eddie calls back, grabbing his wallet from the kitchen table and shoving it in his back pocket. 

“Oh,” his mother says, sounding put-out. “I was hoping you’d make a smarter decision concerning tonight, Eddie.”

Shame creeps into Eddie’s spine, his insides. He shakes his head. Not tonight. “I’m probably staying over Stan’s tonight, Ma, don’t wait up,” Eddie says quickly, before he loses all nerve and marches back upstairs with an apology text drafting over and over in his mind, “I love you!”

Eddie runs out the front door and slams it behind him a little harder than necessary. He’ll pay for that one tomorrow morning, but that’s a Future-Eddie problem. Present-Eddie is going to have _fun_ tonight if it fucking kills him. And right now, his heart beating so fast it might burst in his chest, Eddie is convinced it might.

“Eddie!” Stan yells, hanging out of the passenger side window, “Bill, look, he’s alive!”

“Fuck off, Stanley,” Eddie calls back, jogging down his driveway.

Bill rolls down his window and grins. “Lookin’ good, dude!” He reaches out for a fist bump, which Eddie returns, and makes a big show of looking Eddie up and down. “Goddamn!”

“Glad you finally did something with that mop,” Stan says, reaching into the back seat to unlock the door for Eddie, “I was getting sick of you looking like the rejected sixth Bee Gee. It’s not nineteen-fucking-seventy anymore, Edward.”

“Everyone’s a fuckin’ critic,” Eddie laughs, sliding into the backseat. He shuts the door behind him and chances a glance back at his house. His mother has gotten out her chair and is staring out the kitchen window, one hand pressed against the glass. Something twinges in Eddie’s gut. It feels like victory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we don't speak these days like i thought we would.  
> i wanna go back to being the top of your world.  
> -17, the greeting committee

There’s a knot tied deep in Eddie’s chest as they pull up outside of Greta Keene’s suburban bi-level. Ben’s beside him, buzzing excitedly while Stan sings along to the Gorillaz song Bill’s blasting through tricked-out speakers. There are kids smoking on the porch, and Eddie is incredibly relieved to see that Richie is not one of them. 

“Bev and Mike are already here,” Ben says, glancing up from his phone. There are about thirty heart emojis glaring from his screen, which could easily be from Bev _or_ Mike. Ben pauses, glancing sideways at Eddie, before he adds, “So is Richie.”

“Fuck him, we’re having a good time tonight,” Stan says flippantly. 

Eddie’s stomach clenches and he feels like he might throw up, but he nods, resolute. “Totally.”

“Sound a little more convinced, Eds,” Bill says brightly, turning in his seat to offer Eddie a reassuring smile. “You got this, man. We’ll be right there.”

“I will be a human shield if necessary,” Ben offers.

“Ben’s great at that,” Stan says, “I use him to keep Bill away when he gets too stoned. Fucker gets way too cuddly and it bugs me out.”

“Excuse me for trying to love you, Jesus.”

“Shut up, Bill.”

“I don’t want to turn you guys against Richie,” Eddie murmurs, head tipping forward. This whole night feels like a mistake already, and he hasn’t even left the car. “He’s your friend, too.”

“Please,” Stan scoffs, waving Eddie off, “ _Richie_ turned us against him when he dropped you and your ten years of friendship like it was nothing. If he had been less of a dick about it, maybe we’d like him more.”

“He’s been...different, lately,” Ben adds, which is Ben-speak for _fuck that guy_. Eddie feels touched.

“It’s not like I’ve really been around either,” Eddie says, scratching at the back of his head. 

“You’re here now,” Stan says dismissively, as if that’s that. Maybe it is. 

Maybe all they wanted was for Eddie to _try_.

“Let’s have fun, get you drunk, and then all pass out in Stan’s basement,” Bill says, twisting in the driver’s seat to lightly punch at Eddie’s shoulder. “Just like old times.”

Eddie has to admit that sounds really fucking nice. Stan has the best basement, the bougie fuck. Eddie is going to grab the pink sherpa blanket from Stan’s linen closet, wrap himself up, and refuse to leave his cocoon for at least twelve hours.

They all trip out of the car, pushing and laughing. Eddie almost feels normal, wedged against Ben’s solid form with Stan’s arm thrown lazily over his shoulders. A shock of bright red hair pops out from behind a giant football player on the porch. “Benjamin!” 

“Beverly!” Ben calls back, jogging a few steps forward. Bev meets him halfway, eyes bright. She throws her arms around his neck and he lifts her off of the ground, spins her around like a princess in a fairy tale. Her dress flies up, revealing bright pink bike shorts that match exactly nothing else that she’s wearing. 

“Oh, my love,” Beverly says dramatically, pretending to swoon in Ben’s arms when he sets her down, “I’ve missed you!”

“It’s been three hours since you guys got dinner,” Stan tells her, eyebrows raised. 

Bill flicks him in the ear. “Shut up, it’s _romantic_.”

Bev sticks her tongue out, leaning so far around Ben to get a good look at Stan that he’s basically holding her up. A gasp, and then, “Eddie Kaspbrak, as I live and breathe!”

Eddie holds up a hand in a half-assed wave. “Hi, Bev.”

“The boy disappears into the void for months and all I get is a ‘hi, Bev?’ Jesus Christ.” Bev untangles herself from Ben and rushes toward Eddie, taking his head in both of her hands and squishing his cheeks. She kisses his forehead, says, sincerely, “I have _missed you_ something fierce, dude.”

Eddie laughs, swats at her hands before tugging her into a tight hug. She squeezes back a little aggressively, face pressed into his shoulder. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Bev pulls back and touches a hand to his cheek, smiling a quiet smile for just the two of them. God, Eddie missed Beverly Marsh. Standing here, surrounded by the majority of his best friends, his family, Eddie wonders why the hell he pulled away in the first place. This feels like home, more than the empty shell of his house ever could. 

“What did these assholes bribe you with to get you out?” Bev asks, eyes gleaming with laughter.

“Our unconditional love,” Stan says flatly, but he hip bumps Eddie affectionately as he passes by. “Let’s go inside, it’s cold. Fuck, it’s barely October.”

“I’ll be in once I finish,” Bev says, gesturing to the lit cigarette in her other hand. Eddie feels the overwhelming desire to cough, a leftover compulsion from years of thinking he had asthma. He has to remind himself firmly that he’s not sick, he never was. God, even when he manages to escape for a few hours, his mother still lingers. “You guys go on. Mike’s inside, dancing like a lunatic. Take pictures for me, will you?”

“Of course,” Ben tells her, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. Bev flushes, pleased, before waving them inside.

The inside of the house is packed and sweaty, heat coming off of dancing bodies in waves. Over the speakers, someone sings about becoming _one of the drunks_ and kids scream along, dancing wildly. Solo cups litter the floor, the tables, the couches. Eddie distantly wonders where the fuck Greta Keene’s parents are. Bill places a steadying hand on Eddie’s back and gently guides him forward. Someone from the baseball team hands Stan a cup of something red and he tips it back like it’s nothing. 

“Let’s go find Mike,” he yells over the music. 

There’s a burst of familiar laughter from the kitchen, and Eddie feels immediately sick. There, in all his lanky glory, is Richie, standing right next to Mike because _of course_ he is. He towers over the little group of football players and cheerleaders, one arm wrapped casually around Mike. He’s gesturing wildly with his other hand, Marcia McFadden watching him like he’s spilling the secrets to the universe. 

Ben stops, hand grabbing for Stan. “Let’s...not go find Mike.”

“Aw, shit,” Stan says.

Bill’s guiding hand turns into a fist, bunched up in the back of Eddie’s flannel. He uses this to redirect Eddie in the exact opposite direction of where they had originally been headed. Eddie makes a small noise of protest, because Jesus, he’s not going to break in half the second he sees Richie, okay, he’s not that pathetic. 

“It’s fine, guys, really,” Eddie insists, shoving lightly at Bill to get him to stop. “We can go say hi to Mike. I’ll survive.”

“Are you sure?” Stan asks, looking decidedly unconvinced. He squints at Eddie like he’s waiting for Eddie to crack into pieces at any moment. It only makes Eddie more determined to go over there and ignore Richie before Richie can ignore him.

“I’m sure,” Eddie says, defiant.

Bill claps his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, yells, “Our little spitfire is back!”

“Hell yeah,” Ben whoops, elbowing Eddie lightly in the side.

The turn back around and Eddie takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever’s about to happen. At best, they will ignore each other and coexist peacefully for the time it takes to say hi to Mike and then hightail it the fuck out of there. At worst, well. Eddie’s prepared for a screaming match.

The world moves in slow motion as Eddie gets closer, his friends surrounding him like bodyguards. Ben has a hand resting on Eddie’s elbow, anchoring him. He knows there’s music playing but he can’t hear it; there’s only the vibration of the bass propelling him forward. An itchy feeling under his skin tells him that a panic attack is due any second, and suddenly Eddie doesn’t feel so brave.

That is, until Mike locks eyes with him and practically _screams_ in excitement.

“There he is!” Mike roars, sliding out from under Richie’s arm and stampeding towards Eddie, “My fuckin’ _boy_!”

Eddie finds himself being hoisted off of the ground and jostled. He lets out a startled laugh and hugs Mike back with all the ferocity he can muster. When Mike finally sets him down, he doesn’t let go, just pulls back at arm’s length and turns Eddie from side to side. “Look at you, goddamn! A snack! A whole meal!”

“He’s a total babe,” Bill agrees. Beside him, Stan nods, looking incredibly amused.

“Means a lot coming from the head quarterback,” Eddie shoots back, grinning wildly. He can’t help himself. Mike is infectious. 

“Aw, shut up, man, that means nothing,” Mike says, modest as ever. He’s beaming at Eddie, vibrating with excitement. Just behind him, Richie has gone stone-faced. 

“Hey, Rich,” Bill offers, holding out a hand for a fist bump. 

Richie _sup_ nods, like a douchebag, and fist bumps Bill back. “Stanley the manly,” he adds, attempting a grin.

Stan lifts his chin. “Richard.”

It feels like some sort of stand-off. Eddie is immediately uncomfortable. Ben glances between Richie and Stan nervously until Mike rolls his eyes. “Cut it out, y’all. Go sit in separate corners if you can’t be civil. Nobody has time for that.”

“Right you are, Michael,” Richie says, in a near-perfect British accent. His voices have improved vastly since they were kids, so much so that Eddie might even call them _impressions_ now. If, you know, Eddie were to call them anything at all. Which he won’t, because Richie sucks and does not deserve the credit. 

Richie claps Mike on the back once, sends an appeasing smile to Ben, _completely_ ignores Eddie, and stalks off in the other direction. Marcia McFadden and a few other cheerleaders follow, giggling and glancing like they’ve just witnessed something huge occur. And maybe they have. The final, horrible downfall of what was once the most unshakeable friend group in Derry.

“Fucker didn’t even say hi to you,” Stan seethes. Bill puts a placating hand on the small of his back, rubbing lightly. 

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, but it doesn’t feel fine. “I knew that was going to happen.”

Mike shakes his head, lets out a breath. “Man, what the hell even happened between you two? Richie won’t tell me shit, and you’ve been a little, uh, awol.”

“Get a few drinks in me and maybe I’ll spill,” Eddie says wryly.

Mike grins. “My man!” He thrusts his cup into Eddie’s hand. “Here, take mine, God knows I’ve had enough. It’s lemonade and vodka.”

“What a gentleman,” Eddie says graciously, and Mike actually leans down to kiss his hand. Not for the first time, Eddie wishes that his dumb, all-consuming crush could have been on Mike instead of the garbage pile that is Richie _fucking_ Tozier.

From there, the night goes rapidly downhill. 

In a little under an hour, Stan is near catatonic, leaning the entirety of his tall frame on Bill, who is attempting to simultaneously prop him up like it’s a goddamn weekend at Bernie’s and slow dance with him to Post Malone. Ben is crushing beer cans against his head and screaming in the kitchen. Mike is twirling in circles and very nearly smacking every person that enters his general vicinity. And Eddie, Eddie is drunk and crying over Richie in the corner. 

Tonight was supposed to be about pushing himself out of his comfort zone, about reconnecting with his friends and reclaiming his life like some teen movie hero. But the story will never be about Eddie. He will always be the background character, bunched up in the corner of a party he was only invited to by association, while the main characters have fun and learn stupid fucking life lessons. 

Eddie could have been like them. He made the track team sophomore year, but his mom made him quit when she found out. It was three weeks of screaming and sobbing until Eddie just broke down, couldn’t take it. Didn’t have the energy. Sometimes, Eddie lies in bed and thinks about how different his life would be if he’d just fucking stood up for himself. 

Eddie could have been the kid who went up against his shitty, manipulative mother and _won_ , who finally _fought_ for himself, for anything.

Now, he sits in the corner of Greta Keene’s stupid IKEA display of a living room, mumbling along to a depressing pop song with a beat that people can dance to. “ _You prolly think that you are better now, better now,_ ” he mutters, letting his head thump against a TV stand. The giant flat screen wobbles and Eddie wishes to God it would topple over and crush him. Maybe then Richie would be sorry.

The boy in question is playing beer pong in the dining room, one arm wrapped around Sally Mueller’s waist. She’s pressed flush against him, head falling against his shoulder like she has any right to be there. Eddie, of course, has positioned himself where he has a direct view of all of this, because he hates himself.

“ _Woulda gave you anything, woulda gave you everything..._ ”

“Oh, absolutely not. Jesus Christ, Edward.”

Bev stands over him, arms crossed and head cocked to the side. She looks disappointed. Eddie wants to die.

“Leave me here to die,” he tells her, face smushed against wood paneling, “I want to die.”

“No you don’t,” Bev says easily. She kicks at his hand with purple combat boots. Eddie groans loudly, moves his hand away. Bev kicks his foot, hard. “Get up, asshole. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Clean?”

Bev snorts. “You have beer all down the front of you, idiot.”

Eddie makes a mournful sound, so loudly that a few people glance over at him. “Oh _no_ , Bev.”

Bev hoists him up with the strength of someone much bigger than she is. “The rest of the boys are useless as usual, so it’s just me and you, kid,” she tells him, pushing him a little roughly in the direction of Greta’s bathroom.

“Gonna throw up now,” Eddie says, and gags.

“Cool,” Bev says, and she redirects them to Greta’s back deck. 

They pass Ben, who drops his drink and yells delightedly when he spots Bev. She passes him quickly, pausing only to touch his cheek lightly and send a soft smile. Eddie wants to die, then and there. One more display of love from _anyone_ and he is going to throw himself off of the deck. If anyone even _looks_ at him the wrong way, he is going to _throw himself off the deck_.

Bev throws open the screen door and shoves Eddie outside. He stumbles a bit but catches himself, only to tip forward and spew the contents of his stomach out over the deck railing. The cool air feels like a slap in the face. 

Bev closes the sliding door behind her, muffling the sound of the thumping bass and screaming teenagers. “You doin’ okay, bud?”

“What is okay?”

“Fair enough,” Bev laughs. She plops down in a fancy looking deck chair and settles in, propping her feet up on a glass table. “You wanna talk?”

Eddie wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, sniffling away the snot threatening to drip out of his nose. “There are so many liquids coming out of me,” he says miserably, and Bev laughs, “Tears, mucus, vomit.”

“That’s hot,” Bev says, letting her head loll to the side. “Seriously, Eddie. What’s been going on with you?”

Eddie lets out a shaky laugh and the flood gates open. He hears Bev whisper, “Oh, shit,” before scooching over in her seat and opening her arms in an invitation. Tears stream down his face and he wipes at them angrily. Eddie wedges himself in between her side and the armrest, let’s Bev put her arms around him and pull him in tighter. Her head rests on top of his.

“He fucking hates me, Bev.”

Bev picks at a loose thread in Eddie’s jeans. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just fucking stupid.”

They’re silent for a few moments, no sound but Eddie’s hiccuping. “Bev?”

Bev shifts so that her face is smushed into his hair. “Yes, my darling?”

Eddie clenches his hands so tight he’s afraid his fingers will break. He takes a deep breath and says, “Richie and I were kind of dating.”

Bev makes a small _hm_ sound. “That explains a lot.”

Eddie doesn’t respond, just stares out into the distance. There are a lot of stars out tonight.

“I figured something a little...deeper, happened between you two,” Bev continues, “He stopped smiling and you just...disappeared.”

Eddie can’t help but snort. “He still smiles plenty.”

“It’s not real,” Bev says, turning slightly so she can look down at him. “I know the difference. And so do you.”

“He’s the one who ended it, so he can go fuck himself.”

“What happened?”

Eddie feels his eyes prickle. “He, uh. We kissed last New Year’s. At Sally’s party. We snuck onto the roof and watched the fireworks. And he kissed me.”

“Sounds romantic,” Bev says, and Eddie hums in agreement.

“It was. But he didn’t want to tell anyone. I was fine with it because like, what if my mom found out? She’d skin me alive,” Eddie laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “It was perfect for a few weeks, and sneaking around was kind of exciting. We never really made it official but it felt like it was going to go on forever. Like he was it for me. I’ve been over the moon for that asshole since I was nine, you know?”

“I do,” Bev tells him. Her tone is teasing and he shoves at her lightly.

There’s a moment where they share a beat of laughter, but it fades too quickly. Eddie feels like the life is being sucked out of him slowly. 

“He, uh,” Eddie stops, takes a breath, starts again, “He ended it in March. Said he couldn’t do it. And then he just...stopped talking to me. Started hanging around everyone we used to hate, the center of attention, like he always wanted.” Eddie counts to ten, takes in a shuddery breath. “We weren’t enough anymore. _I_ wasn’t enough anymore. And now he ignores me and makes shitty comments about me to look cool when he thinks I can’t hear him. Or maybe I’m supposed to hear them. I don’t fucking know what goes on in his head.”

Bev takes a few moments to consider this, genuine as ever. When she finally looks at Eddie, there is no pity in her eyes. 

“I don’t think Richie is as brave as you are,” she says simply.

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, okay, Bev. Real funny.”

She shifts in the seat, accidentally pushing Eddie a little too far into the armrest. “No, Eddie, I’m serious,” she says, elbowing him in the gut. Eddie can’t tell if it was an accident or not. “Richie’s always been way too concerned with how other people see him. You were willing to risk a lot for him but he was too preoccupied with how it looked to be dating his dorky best friend.”

Eddie lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “Jesus, thanks, Bev.”

Bev taps her shoulder against his. “You know what I _mean_ , Eddie. He looks like a goddamn baller bouncing between Sally and Marcia like a fuckin’ yoyo.” She taps her long black nails against her armrest in an erratic pattern, glancing out into the yard. “He’s changed. For the worse, obviously. The right person finally laughed at one of his stupid jokes and he dropped us like a hot potato. Only talks to Mike because Mike is _popular_ , only talks to Bill and Stan because they’re mega sports stars. He talks to me to get weed, and that’s the end of that.”

They’re quiet for a minute. 

“I want to stop feeling this way,” Eddie says, finally.

“Breakups are hard, babes,” Bev says, sympathetic.

Eddie shakes his head. “It’s not just that. I feel...I feel like I’m not real, some days. Existing hurts. Waking up hurts. I don’t even panic that much, anymore. I don’t feel anything.”

Bev nods, like this makes sense. She meets his eyes and reaches out to squeeze his hand, says, “Eddie, I think you’re depressed.”

Eddie snorts. “That’s what the school psychiatrist says!”

Bev laughs. “Maybe you should listen to her.”

“All doctors are quacks,” Eddie says dismissively.

Bev nods. “Yeah,” she agrees easily, “But Jenny’s cool. She helped me out a lot when my dad, uh, died.” There’s a moment of understanding silence before Bev trudges on. “If it helps, I trust her.”

Eddie tugs at a strand of Bev’s hair. “You’re on a first name basis with the school psychiatrist?”

“Yeah, dude. I got a lotta issues, okay? She’s the only one I trust.”

Eddie lets his head fall back against the back of the chair. Here, twisted up with Bev in a tiny deck chair, he feels like he can say anything. “I want to get better,” he says, like if he speaks it into existence it will just _happen_ , “If Richie would just--”

Bev moves lightning-fast, sliding off of the chair and onto the deck in front of him. She kneels so close that her chin almost rests on Eddie’s knees, and she grabs both of his hands in hers. “Eddie, babe, listen to me,” she says, and Eddie meets her eyes with tears in his own. “Richie is not your answer. None of us are. If you want to get better, you _know_ we’re all in your corner. We’ve got your fuckin’ back, dude. But you have to do it. Nobody can do it for you.”

Eddie feels himself nodding, and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the anxiety but he tips forward, dizzy. Bev catches him, because of course she does. She holds him up and holds him as he cries, these body-wracking sobs that echo through Greta Keene’s nice, suburban neighborhood. “It’s okay, Eddie, it going to be okay.”

For the first time in a really fucking long time, Eddie thinks that maybe it actually might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooooo boy thanks for reading. drop a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed! or if you just wanna tell me this sucked. that's fine too. ur opinions are valid.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do you feel?  
> what's your condition?  
> you are alive, but are you living?  
> give me your voice, and i'll give it a listen.  
> -how do you feel?, the maine

Eddie is a lot drunker than he thinks. It takes Bev, Bill (who is visibly buzzed and therefore a horrible designated driver), and Mike to pry Eddie out of the deck chair. Sure, he’s a tiny guy, but dead weight is dead weight. And Eddie is great at being dead weight, both physically and metaphorically. He rag-dolls onto Bill’s shoulder and pouts, face smushed into Bill’s chest. “M’fine,” he mumbles, gesturing vaguely.

“And I’m the Queen of England,” Bev snorts.

“God save the queen,” Stanley yells from his position on the floor. Bill glances between him and Eddie rapidly, looking extremely conflicted and a little constipated about his responsibility to both his best friend and his boyfriend. Mike rolls his eyes and goes to collect Stan off of the wooden floor. He hoists him up over his shoulder like Stan is a potato sack, to which Stan responds, “ _Bill_ , this is kinda hot. You gotta bulk up so you can do this or I’m leavin’ you for Mikey.”

Mike pats Stan’s shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”

Bill makes a sad little noise. Stan lifts his curly head and shoots him a soft look. “You sensitive asshole,” he slurs fondly, “I love you, you know that.”

Eddie jerks out of Bill’s grip and surprises everyone (including himself) in how fast he manages to almost throw himself over the side of the deck. He’s already got one leg up over the railing by the time Ben manages to grab him and drag him away. 

“Eddie, what the fuck?” Mike yells.

“They love each other so much,” Eddie whines, eyes half-closed and leaning his full weight against Ben, who has a considerably easier time holding him up.

Bev drops her head in annoyed defeat. “You dramatic motherfucker.”

“I said if anyone said _anything_ about love or _anything_ I was gonna...I was gonna throw myself off the deck because nobody loves me and I am alone.” Eddie is slurring and being horribly, horribly dramatic but it’s fine, it’s all good. 

“Our love almost killed Eddie!” Stan wails.

Ben glances over the railing. “It’s like ten feet up, it wouldn’t have killed him. He probably would have just broken a leg.”

“Our love almost broke Eddie’s leg!”

“Love is a curse. Existence is pain. God save our souls.” Eddie slurs loudly, pumping one fist into the air.

“Jesus Christ,” Bev mutters, “Edward, are you suicidal?”

Eddie drunkenly considers this for a moment. “Prolly not?”

Bill makes his constipated face again. “That’s not reassuring at all, holy fuck, Eds.”

“Mm, sorry,” Eddie hums, smushing his face into Ben’s chest. Ben pats his shoulder comfortingly. Ben is warm. Eddie is falling asleep.

“Nope, no,” Bev says, because Bev notices everything, “We are getting you to the car and _I_ am driving because Bill is tipsy.” She holds out her hand towards Bill, who ashamedly hands over his keys easily enough. Bev is the only one allowed to drive Bill’s truck, mostly because Bill is a little bit afraid of her. “We’re going to Stan’s, holing up in his basement, and going the fuck to sleep. We will discuss this in the morning. Understand?”

When she is satisfied that all of the boys have assented in some form or another, Bev turns on her heels and marches back into the house, confident as always that she will be followed. Ben sighs happily, says, “God, she’s so impressive,” and drags Eddie inside.

They make it most of the way to the door without incident, Eddie mumbling unhappily under his breath and Stan singing along to the song that’s playing, still mostly upside down. Then, an incredulous voice asks, “Eddie?”

It’s Richie, because Eddie can’t catch a break. He’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped up against it, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette. It’s the kind of practiced cool that would never come naturally to him, but damnit if Richie’s not a good actor. There’s a frown on his face, a concerned dip in his forehead so deep it’s almost funny. Eddie can’t help himself--he laughs.

“What the fuck!” Eddie yells, throwing his full body weight in the opposite direction of where Ben is leading him. Ben has to scramble to catch him before they both topple to the floor. “Why does the universe hate me so goddamn much?”

There’s a second where Richie looks hurt, but the expression is quickly smoothed over. He glances at Bill, asks, “Is Eddie okay?”

“Yes,” Bill says, at the same time Stan yells, “He tried to throw himself off a deck!”

And suddenly Richie looks _scared_ , full of untapped energy, ready to throw himself toward Eddie any second. “He did _what_?”

“Turn me around, Michael!” Stan demands regally. Mike does. Stan levels a glare at Richie that is impressively intimidating, given that it’s upside down and his face is getting very flushed from all of the blood rushing to his head. “It’s not like you even care.”

“Of course I care,” Richie says, sounding surprised. “Stan, I--”

“Save it, Richie,” Bev says, and she sounds tired. “We just want to go home.”

Richie swallows, and he looks at Eddie. His eyes are full of a lot of different things that Eddie, in his drunken state, can’t quite decipher. Things that Richie’s definitely not going to say tonight, or even ever. He looks like _Richie_ , a little nervous, a little twitchy. Concerned and careful in ways he only ever really was with Eddie. It’s probably just a drunken fluke, but Eddie wants to reach out, wants to say _it’s okay_ , wants to say _please don’t look so sad._

And then there’s Bev’s voice in the back of his head, saying _Richie’s not your answer._

Eddie looks away.

Richie clears his throat, says, “Yeah, okay.”

Eddie breaks away from Ben and storms out, swaying a bit as he goes. It’s a miracle he manages to make it outside without bumping into anything or falling on his ass. He stumbles down the stairs and makes it a few feet before he drops into the grass, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Bill heaves him up without commenting.

Twenty minutes later, Eddie is wrapped up in his favorite pink sherpa blanket, drinking water while Beverly plays with his hair. Stan is passed out on the long couch, the one Eddie and Richie used to share during middle school sleepovers, when they’d sneak Bev in through the backdoor and hide her because Stan’s parents thought boys couldn’t sleep over with girls. Mike has Queer Eye queued up on Netflix, and he and Ben are both crying discreetly over a woman who has just had her church redone instead of her house. Bill pulls a blanket over Stan and smooths down his hair. Eddie has to look away.

“We’re gonna have a long talk in the morning,” Bev murmurs, “Hopefully over Stan’s mom’s waffles.”

Eddie sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

Bev waits a moment, before she asks, “You weren’t actually trying to kill yourself, right?”

Eddie snorts, which causes Mike to glance at him over his shoulder. Eddie sends him a calm smile and answers, “No.”

Bev pulls back scrutinize him for any sign of a lie.

“Bev, seriously, I wasn’t,” Eddie insists, and it’s true. “I was actually just being overdramatic. I’m really, really glad Ben caught me. Don’t ever let me drink that much again.”

Bev nudges him in the side. “I’m not your handler, Kaspbrak.” A pause, and then, “But I won’t. I promise.”

“Thank you, Beverly,” Eddie says. He snuggles closer, lets his head fall against her shoulder. He could get used to this, this new normal. One where Eddie is on some sort of road to recovery, and he has most of his best friends. Not all, but most. Eddie falls asleep to the sound of Stan’s snoring, a familiar comfort. And if it all feels a little empty without Richie cracking jokes in the corner, who cares? 

Eddie will get used to this new normal because he doesn’t have a choice.

-

Eddie wakes up from a pillow to the face. Stan looms above him, grinning down at him. Eddie blinks. “Aren’t you hungover?”

“Do you know how many games I’ve had to play and subsequently won while disgustingly hungover? I bounce back quickly,” Stan tells him, “Get up, my mom made waffles.”

“Oh _hell_ yeah,” Mike shouts from underneath a pile of blankets and pillows. 

Stan wakes the rest of the Losers up in a similarly jarring way, leaving the most devious wake-up call for Bill; the poor kid gets the Kill Bill sirens blasted right into his ear, courtesy of Stan’s Youtube app. 

They all trip up the stairs, fighting each other to be first. Eddie takes a moment to think about how many nights (and mornings) like this his friends have had together since Eddie disappeared on them, all the times they texted him to come over and didn’t get an answer. He wonders if they felt his absence as keenly as Eddie feels Richie’s. One fond glance from Ben as they bump into each other tells Eddie that yeah, maybe they did.

He wonders if maybe they miss Richie, too, and quickly decides that _of course_ they do.

“Good morning!” Mrs. Uris chirps, setting a giant plate of waffles down, “Eat, eat! I made enough to feed a small village, which is exactly how much you lot seem to eat these days.”

Mrs. Uris is everything Eddie wishes his mom would be; encouraging, kind, _proud_. Everything Stan does is significant to her. Every achievement becomes a facebook post, a picture on a refrigerator, a warm hug to come home to. She goes to all of his games and she fought like hell for Bill and Stan’s relationship when her husband didn’t want to come around to the idea that his only son was gay. Plus, she’s the best cook for miles and her waffles are heaven on a plate.

“Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Uris,” Eddie says, sliding next to Mike at the kitchen island. 

Mrs. Uris turns her megawatt smile towards Eddie. “It’s no problem, hon. I’m glad to see you again. We’ve missed you around here.”

“I’ve missed being around here too,” Eddie says, and he smiles when Bill hops up onto the stool next to him and knocks their elbows together affectionately. 

When Mrs. Uris disappears into the living room a few minutes later, Beverly turns on Eddie and asks, “Well?”

Eddie shoves a piece of waffle in his mouth and is surprised to find that he actually is hungry. He can’t tell if its that hangover or the tiny bit of progress he’s made, but either way it feels like a win. 

Bev takes a pointed sip of orange juice and raises her eyebrows. 

“Ugh, fine, we’ll talk about my feelings,” Eddie says, sounding vaguely disgusted. Stan snorts.

“We just want you to be okay,” Ben says, gently. He looks very much like he wants to reach across the table and offer his hand out to Eddie, but he’s not sure how Eddie will react. Eddie doesn’t like that any of his friends feel hesitant around him, but it makes sense. He disappeared for the entire summer and most of September, didn’t return calls or texts, barely left his house, and he never even told them why. They were already reeling and confused from Richie’s sudden departure, and Eddie had to go and make it worse.

Eddie doesn’t know if depression is considered an adequate excuse to be a bad friend, but the pit in his stomach says no.

“Bev and the school psychiatrist think I have depression,” Eddie says, clenches his hands into fists and looks down at the granite counter. 

“And what do you think?” Mike asks softly.

“I think they’re probably right,” Eddie admits, and the confession unties a knot deep in his chest that he didn’t know was there until it wasn’t. “I’ve always had really bad anxiety, but you guys know that. My, uh, my mom hasn’t helped. She makes everything about a thousand times worse, actually. And even when I was younger I would sometimes just feel really sad and I couldn’t figure out why. But this time it took over and I just kind of...let it bury me.”

This time, Ben does reach out. Eddie holds onto his hand like a lifeline, squeezing gratefully. Ben’s answering smile is a mix of relief and pure, unadulterated support. It makes Eddie feel a little braver, so he pushes on.

“It feels kind of like the world is suffocating me, if that makes sense?”

“It d-does,” Bill tells him, and Eddie knows he’s thinking about when he lost Georgie. Stan leans against Bill, presses a kiss to his temple, and then returns his full attention to Eddie.

Eddie smiles at Bill, and it’s a little watery, but Bill nods encouragingly. Eddie clears his throat, and everything spills out quickly, like he’s been tipped over. “Everything was closing in on me, and all of you guys have some kind of purpose, you know? Stan has baseball and Bev has band and...I didn’t have anything. I felt like I didn’t matter and that I never would, because I’ll probably be stuck here forever. I don’t have college plans, I don’t have an out. And I figured that since I was already destined to be invisible, you guys wouldn’t care too much if I just...stopped coming around.”

Stan makes an indignant noise. “You’re our friend, Eddie. Of course we cared.”

Eddie ducks his head, smiles a little bit. “I know that. I should have just, like...trusted you guys. I was a shitty friend, and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Mike says softly. “We’re just glad you’re here now, man.”

“He’s not done, guys,” Bev says, quietly.

Eddie hesitates, glances at Bev. She nods, almost imperceptibly. Eddie takes a deep breath.

“There’s something else,” he says, and he can’t look at any of them when he says, “Richie dumped me.”

There’s a pause. Bill hesitates, then asks, “What do you mean? Like, romantically?”

Eddie nods, just a jerk of the head, and Stan slams a hand onto the granite. “That fucker!”

“Stanley!” His mother calls from the living room, “Language!”

“Sorry, Mom,” Stan calls back, but his attempt at keeping his tone even is unsuccessful. He’s visibly seething, shoulders nearly shaking with contained rage. Eddie is very, very confused.

“Stan, what--” Ben starts, but he cuts himself off when Stan stands up quickly, nearly knocking his stool over.

“That asshole has been in love with Eddie since we were _eleven_ , he finally got his chance, and he blew it? Are you kidding?”

Eddie feels like he’s been punched.

“Since we were eleven?” he asks, a little weakly. 

“Yes!” Stan yells, throws his hands into the air. Eddie knows that, aside from maybe himself, Stan was always the closest to Richie. They share the same weird-ass humor and bonded over strange internet jokes that no one else understood. “God, I can’t believe I ever actually considered that dickhead to be my best friend.”

Bill presses his cheek against Stan’s arm, offering a kind of silent support that seems to help Stanley calm down. All at once, Eddie realizes that Stan’s going through a sort of break up, too. Sure, Richie still _graces_ Stan with his presence, but he’s different, colder. Eddie can’t imagine what he would do if Bill flipped Eddie’s image of him upside down practically overnight, became a stranger with the face of someone he loved so deeply.

He thinks, a little uncomfortably, about how Bill might have felt during Eddie’s summer disappearance. Thinks back to just how desperate Bill had looked, trying to get Eddie to go to Greta’s party, to just get his best friend to even _interact_ with him.

Eddie makes a mental note to give Bill the biggest hug ever, later. 

Stan marches over to Eddie and wraps him up in a tight hug from behind, leaning over and resting his chin on Eddie’s head. “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie grabs at Stan’s arm and presses his face against the fabric of Stan’s (Bill’s) shirt. After a moment, they let go, and Stan stiffly makes his way back to his seat. 

“I don’t know if I’m explaining this right,” Eddie tells his friends, feeling a little bit hopeless.

“Depression doesn’t have rules, man,” Mike says, offering him a warm smile, “And besides, you don’t have to explain anything to us. Your feelings are real either way and we’re gonna help you work through them.”

“You just have to want to get better, Eddie,” Bev reminds him softly.

“I do,” Eddie says; a promise. “I want to get better.”

He wants to stand up for himself, against his mom and against Richie and against all the kids that look right through him like he’s nothing. He wants to figure out his life and apply to a college somewhere far away from his mother, use his father’s savings and leave Maine for good. He wants to rejoin the fucking track team because goddammit, he loves running. He wants to go out and have fun and enjoy his last year of childhood with his very best friends.

Bev smiles at him, a wide one that lights up her whole face. She reaches across the table and squeezes both of his hands in hers, says, “Your future starts now, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thx for reading y'all! i live for validation so leave a comment if you enjoyed (or don't, that's cool too. no pressure.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of suicidal thoughts!! scroll to the bottom to see an abridged summary of that scene.
> 
> if it's all up to us, we might as well give up.  
> you want forgiveness  
> but i just can't do it yet.  
> -forgiveness, paramore

Monday morning finds Eddie in the school psychologist’s office.

She smiles at him serenely. “Hello, Eddie. My name is Dr. Estrada.”

“I know who you are,” Eddie says testily, and immediately regrets it. He promised Bev he’d give therapy a real shot before calling it quits. He takes a deep breath and mumbles, “Sorry.”

Dr. Estrada doesn’t flinch. There’s a moment where Eddie briefly considers waving a hand in front of her face to see if she’ll blink, but he quickly pushes the thought away. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

Eddie nods, a terse and jerky thing. “Last year. I came in for one session and you told me I was probably depressed.”

A smile tugs at Dr. Estrada’s lips. “Yes, I remember. You stormed out in a huff and knocked over my candy bowl.”

It wasn’t Eddie’s proudest moment. “I just don’t trust doctors,” Eddie shrugs, scratching at his arm and looking anywhere else but at her.

“Why not?”

“Because doctors will say whatever your parent wants them to say if they get paid enough,” Eddie mutters, “Or if your mom is so convinced you’re sick she won’t leave the office til they agree.”

“That sounds stressful,” Dr. Estrada says mildly.

“Fuck,” Eddie says, then, “Sorry,” then, eyes squinting, “So is this your game? Tricking me into answering questions that just so happen to be related to extremely personal details?”

“There’s no game,” Dr. Estrada tells him, “I asked you a question and you answered it. You have full control, Eddie. You can say no at any time.”

“Bev says I should be honest or you won’t be able to help me.”

“Beverly Marsh?” Dr. Estrada asks, her calm facade cracking the tiniest bit. There’s an odd fondness in her eyes, a kind of warmth that Eddie doesn’t usually associate with adults.

“Yes,” Eddie says suspiciously, “She’s the only reason I’m even here. Said she trusts you.”

“I’m honored,” Dr. Estrada says, and she sounds sincere. “I’ve known Beverly for a long time. A very bright and very strong young woman.”

Eddie feels a surge of pride. “She is,” he agrees, “She’s one of my best friends.”

“I’m glad you listened to her and decided to pay me a visit.”

Eddie shrugs, picks at a loose thread at the bottom of his shirt. “I want to feel better.”

Dr. Estrada leans forward a little in her seat, and Eddie notices how kind her eyes are. She’s young, much younger than most adults Eddie is used to dealing with, which throws him off-guard. “I think it’s commendable that you are taking steps to prioritize your mental health.”

Eddie snorts, and, before he can stop himself, says, “What mental health? There’s nothing healthy about my brain.”

To his complete and utter bewilderment, Dr. Estrada _laughs_. For the first time since he sat down across from her, Eddie kind of gets why Bev likes her so much. “I think we all feel like that, sometimes,” Dr. Estrada says, clasping her hands in her lap. Her nails are purple. “It’s important for you to remember that there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Eddie is momentarily floored. 

He has spent his entire life being poked and prodded at, being told every little thing that makes him different makes him _sick_. Makes him wrong. There’s always been something to fix, to medicate, to reset. Lungs that don’t work right, muscles that are too delicate to strain, a body entirely too weak to participate in gym or any kind of physical activity.

Eddie has spent his entire life being told that _everything_ is wrong with him.

Dr. Estrada watches calmly, probably waiting for a reaction, tapping her pen lightly against a clipboard. Eddie takes in her purple nails and warm eyes and decides to take a leap of faith. If he’s wrong, and she’s untrustworthy, he can always just melt into the vast crowd of students and avoid her until he dies.

“I don’t trust doctors because my mom paid my pediatrician under the table to diagnose me with everything under the goddamn sun for my entire childhood,” he blurts out, noting with some satisfaction that Dr. Estrada doesn’t flinch at the curse word. She does, however, raise both eyebrows in surprise. She opens her mouth, but Eddie cuts her off with a quick, “It doesn’t happen anymore. I found out when I was twelve and the pharmacist's daughter told me all my medication was fake.”

Dr. Estrada sets her pen down carefully, and there’s a worried crease in her forehead. “I obviously can’t diagnose your mother without meeting her and speaking with her, but--”

“Munchausen by proxy,” Eddie interrupts, a rueful smile making its way onto his face. “I did all the research. I know what she has. I spent my entire life thinking I was horribly sick, but _she’s_ the sick one. Which is why I play along, because I’m all she’s got. I let her fuss and freak out and basically ruin my life because I feel _sorry_ for her. Taking care of me is the only purpose she has. She’s also great at guilt tripping, which doesn’t help, because how do you say no to your mom when she’s sobbing at you like you’re about to kill her?

“I’ve been thinking about going to college. Away, I mean. She wants me to go to community but I want to leave. Is that selfish?”

Dr. Estrada looks Eddie dead in the eyes and says, very carefully, “Your mother is not your responsibility. It is her job to parent you, not your job to parent her.”

Immediately, Eddie knows he’s made the right choice.

“Can I come back?” Eddie asks, abrupt and a little high-pitched. For some reason, he’s worried she’ll say no, even though she probably (legally) has to say yes. 

Dr. Estrada’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Of course.”

A wave of relief crashes over Eddie, so strong it almost knocks him out of his seat. “Cool,” he says, which feels like the understatement of the year. The bell rings, then, and Eddie stands up so fast his vision blurs for a second. “Cool,” he repeats, then, “I have to go to Calc.”

“Thank you for being honest with me, Eddie,” Dr. Estrada says, “I know it must have been hard.”

“Talking is exhausting,” Eddie tells her, shouldering his backpack. She laughs, which makes Eddie feel braver. “But it feels nice to get it out. Like I’m not floating on a space rock in the middle of the universe by myself. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” Dr. Estrada smiles softly. God, Bev is going to be incorrigible when he tells her she was right. 

“Cool,” Eddie says again, “I’ll see you, uh...another time.”

“See you then,” Dr. Estrada says, and now it looks like she’s trying not to laugh. It doesn’t feel like she’s making fun of him, though. It feels like they’re both in on the joke.

With a little half-wave, Eddie all but launches himself out of her office and into the comforting anonymity of the Derry High hallway, where nobody knows his business and he can fade into the background. He knows that he’s supposed to be actively trying _not _to just let himself disappear, but hey, he saw a fuckin’ therapist today. One step at a time.__

__He feels a little lighter, a little less like the world is crashing down around him. Even a step in the right direction feels like a leap away from the garbage storm his life has become. Progress is slow but sure. Eddie feels...okay._ _

__Which means, of course, that the universe lets the other shoe drop _immediately_ , and Eddie goes crashing directly into Richie._ _

__“Woah, hey, sorry, I--Eddie?”_ _

__“My bad,” Eddie half-yells, voice going high-pitched and terrible. The sinking feeling in his gut returns. Cool, Eddie thinks. Back to normal._ _

__He tries to side-step Richie and make a break for it, but Richie grabs onto his arm to steady him and asks, “Are you okay?”_ _

__“Peachy,” Eddie responds immediately, “I have Calc. Excuse me.”_ _

__He ducks under Richie’s arm with a speed and agility he didn’t even know he was capable of and is vaguely impressed by. Fight or flight is good for something, right? You get pretty fast when you literally _always_ pick flight. _ _

__“Eddie, wait!”_ _

__Eddie grits his teeth and moves forward, and he’s _not_ curious about what Richie has to say, okay? And even if he was, it wouldn’t be healthy for him to stop, right? He has to get over Richie. Can’t keep dwelling on _what ifs_. They don’t matter, because whatever universe he and Richie end up together in, it’s not this one. _ _

__“Eddie, dude, seriously--”_ _

__Jesus, Richie’s still following him? Eddie tries to push past two giant football players, but they don’t budge and Eddie hits what is essentially a wall. One of them glances down at him, a dumb expression on his face. Eddie shoving at him probably feels like being hit with a paper airplane. The other glances past Eddie which, okay, he’s used to, except--_ _

__“Yo, Rich!” the football player--Mason Dunbar, Eddie thinks wildly, feeling a little like a trapped animal--yells, pounding a fist into the air._ _

__“Hey, asshole,” Richie replies, an easy grin replacing the weird, concerned look he’d been wearing when he’d essentially _assaulted_ Eddie with his stupid lanky body. This Richie is easy to walk away from._ _

__Eddie spots a tiny opening between Mason and the locker to his right. Luckily, Eddie is very tiny. “Excuse me,” he says, louder than usual, which actually makes Mason look down at him._ _

__“Oh, sorry, man,” Mason says, and steps aside._ _

__Eddie is momentarily shocked, because someone outside of his immediate friend group acknowledge his existence which is...new. “Thanks,” Eddie says faintly, and bolts._ _

__Is that all it takes? Just...speak louder, and suddenly you pop into existence and people see you? Eddie can do that. Eddie is _very_ loud._ _

__He makes it exactly two classrooms away from his own when a large hand wraps around his elbow. Eddie takes a second to pray to whatever being might be listening that the big hand is Mike, or Stan, or Ben. He whips around, only to realize that even if there is anything up in the sky, it sure isn’t listening to Eddie Kaspbrak._ _

__“ _What_ , Richie?” Eddie asks, equal parts pissed off and exhausted._ _

__Richie has the balls to look vaguely offended. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”_ _

__Eddie shoots him an incredulous look. “I already said I was fine. I know you’re like, the Iron Giant, and I’m approximately three feet tall, but you bumping into me isn’t going to like, kill me--”_ _

__Richie makes a frustrated noise. “No, I--” He cuts himself off, glances around, and lowers both his voice and his body. He hunches over a little, white-knuckling his backpack straps. “Stan said you tried to throw yourself off the deck at Greta’s party--”_ _

__“Richie,” Eddie groans, letting his head drop. He squeezes the bridge of his nose between two fingers and heaves a deep sigh. Why won’t the world let him rest? “Richie...are you trying to ask me if I’m suicidal?”_ _

__Richie pauses, wearing a very specific expression that tells Eddie that he obviously didn’t think he’d get this far and is completely lost on how to proceed. “Yes?”_ _

__“What the fuck,” Eddie mutters under his breath. Slowly, he lifts his head and meets Richie’s eyes. Richie’s clearly uncomfortable, but he’s standing his ground, like confronting Eddie about his possible suicidal tendencies is somehow _important_ to him, even after months of radio silence. “No, Jesus, I’m not. I mean, I might have been? At one point?” Richie’s eyes widen impossibly and he takes a step forward. Eddie takes a deliberate step back and holds up his hands, placating. “But like, I’m not. Not anymore. I was just being drunk and stupid, okay?”_ _

__Richie tugs a hand through wild curls, face pulled tight in discomfort. He looks at Eddie, searching. Eddie doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he’s not a huge fan of being analyzed by his ex-whatever in the middle of the hallway._ _

__“I have Calc,” Eddie repeats, for what feels like the millionth time._ _

__“With Miss Peterson,” Richie says distractedly. There’s a beat, and Richie winces, evidently realizing what he said before Eddie can properly react._ _

__Eddie doesn’t exactly know how he feels about Richie knowing his schedule, so he pushes the thought deep down and avoids it like the plague. “I’m not suicidal,” he says again, just to really drive it home._ _

__“Okay,” Richie says, agreeably enough. He’s making Bill’s patented constipated face, and Eddie would laugh if he wasn’t certain a similar expression was currently occupying his own face._ _

__“Okay,” Eddie echos. His voice sounds distant. He turns on his heels and marches approximately three steps away before he spins back around. Richie is still standing there with that stupid look on his face, chewing on his bottom lip. Eddie is suddenly, inexplicably furious. “What’s your game, Richie?”_ _

__Richie goes stock still, eyes wide. “What--”_ _

__Eddie stomps forward and pokes Richie square in the chest, as hard as he can. “You haven’t spoken to me in literal _months_ , and suddenly you’re concerned about my mental health?”_ _

__Richie’s face pinches in confusion. “Jesus, Eds, of course I care--”_ _

__“Don’t you dare,” Eddie says, voice dangerously low. “Don’t you dare call me that.”_ _

__People are starting to stare, glancing between the two of them like they’re a bomb about to go off. Maybe they are. Richie doesn’t seem to care, just keeps his eyes trained on Eddie’s. “Eddie,” Richie corrects himself, and his voice sounds strange, tight. “I never stopped caring.”_ _

__Eddie scoffs, loud and angry. “Could have fooled me.”_ _

__The bell rings, and the students around them slowly start to disappear into classrooms. Neither Eddie nor Richie move. Doors and lockers slam shut and soon, they’re the only ones left in the hallway. Eddie thinks, distantly, that he has no idea how far Richie has to go to get to class. Because Eddie is a petty person at his core, he hopes it’s all the way across the school._ _

__Richie opens his mouth to say something, but Eddie cuts him off before he can start. “You don’t just get to waltz back into my life like you never left, okay? You chose this. _You_ fucked this up. And you know what?” Eddie lets out a laugh that sounds a little hysterical, even to his own ears. “We’re doing fine without you! All of us. We’re _fine_.”_ _

__It’s a horrible, horrible lie. There’s a hole in the gigantic space Richie used to occupy, cracking jokes and smiling dopily and loving his friends so hard he might burst. Eddie misses him like he’d miss an arm or a leg, and he knows in his gut that the rest of the Losers feel the same._ _

__Lucky seven dwindled to six. More like five and a half, because Eddie disappeared for months and barely even counts himself. God, Eddie did exactly what Richie did. Fucked off for half a year without even a single excuse. But that’s different right? Because Eddie was having _issues_. Richie’s just a dick. There’s a difference. There has to be. Richie saw an opportunity and took it, left his friends behind without a second thought. Eddie didn’t abandon his friends, he had _felt_ abandoned, so he made a few shitty decisions that he’s paying for and actively trying to make right._ _

__Eddie’s getting _better_ , goddamnit._ _

__Richie’s face has gone carefully blank. Whatever concern was left has been wiped clean. “I’m glad to hear you’re all doing great _without_ me,” Richie says, voice sharp and cold. Eddie just barely keeps himself from flinching. “Guess I’ll just go fuck myself.”_ _

__He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and turns away, swaggering down the hall like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Halfway down the hallway, he starts _whistling_. It’s disconcerting, just how quickly Richie can switch off his personality and change into someone Eddie can’t recognize. As much as Eddie hates to admit it, Richie’s turned out to be a hell of an actor. Any performing arts school is going to be lucky to have him next year when he fucks off to...somewhere else, to be a big shot comedian. And Eddie will never see him again. _ _

__The thought sits heavy in the pit of Eddie’s stomach. The tight feeling in the back of his throat and his sudden blurry vision alerts him to the fact that he’s crying, which is lame as fuck. Why is he such a crybaby lately? He wipes angrily at his face with the back of his arm and stomps off in the direction if his calculus class, reaching blindly towards the handle of the door._ _

__Eddie is seven minutes late when he slams the door open and stalks towards his seat in the front row, right beside Stanley. Miss Peterson pauses mid-sentence, glances at Eddie, and immediately decides not to comment. He must look crazy. He _feels_ crazy._ _

__“Um,” Stan says, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arching into his hairline._ _

__“Fuck off, Stanley,” Eddie bites out._ _

__“Language,” Miss Peterson says lightly._ _

__Eddie buries his face into his arms and stays there for the remainder of class._ _

__-_ _

__Eddie and Bill go running after school._ _

__They used to go all the time, when Eddie could slip out during his mother’s afternoon nap, go for a quick run, then be home and showered by the time she woke up. Now, it’s a lot harder to leave his house. Eddie’s mother has impossibly tightened her grip on him, because Eddie’s 18th birthday is in one month._ _

__One month, and her legal hold on him disintegrates. He can do, go, say whatever he wants. If she caught wind that Eddie was thinking about _not_ settling for community college, about applying to his dream school and running away to New York City with a major that would make his mother’s head spin--psychology, because he wants to _understand_ why his mother is sick, why she could do this to her only son--she’d lock him in his room and chain him to a desk or something._ _

__One month of Eddie pretending to be a good, obedient, _straight_ son, before his inheritance is _his_ and the money Eddie’s dad had put away for Eddie’s college education can actually go to _college_. _ _

__And sure, the last seven months of living with his mother will be hell on earth once he makes a full one-eighty and quite possibly drives his mother to a heart attack in the process, but at least he’ll be able to be himself. That’s gotta count for something._ _

__For the first time in a very long time, Eddie feels like his chances of getting out of this cursed fucking town are pretty goddamn good._ _

__So Eddie and Bill go running after school, because he wants to start pushing at his mother, bit by bit, so he doesn’t completely chicken out when the time comes to stand up to his mom about something that really matters._ _

__“Eddie, dear, are you sure this is a good idea?”_ _

__“Yeah, ma,” Eddie tells her, voice placating as he laces up his running shoes. “A sedentary lifestyle is much more dangerous for me than going running every once in a while. Gets the blood flowing, you know? This is actually healthy.”_ _

__His mother frowns, not entirely convinced. But she’s spent his entire life spouting pure shit about his health, so she’s not exactly in the position to turn him down._ _

__“I suppose you’re right,” she concedes, after a long moment, “Just...be back before dark.”_ _

__“Of course,” Eddie agrees. He doesn’t tell her he’s going with Bill, because that’s a fight he doesn’t feel like having. If he hears his own mother call being gay an abomination one more time, his head will likely explode and that’s just gross._ _

__He makes it all the way to the end of the driveway before he glances back. His mother is once again at the window, hand pressed against the glass. Eddie lifts a hand in a wave and her face lights up. There’s lead in Eddie’s stomach._ _

__Leaving his mom might kill him before it kills her._ _

__He jogs to Bill’s house around the corner, and Bill is waiting out front. He waves enthusiastically, falling in step beside Eddie as easily as he breathes._ _

__They run in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of huffing and feet pounding against the pavement. Eddie pushes himself because he can. It never ceases to amaze him that he can run, and he can run _fast_. His lungs don’t burn any more than anyone else’s might, because he’s healthy. He can run. His mother tries to insist that he’s outgrown his asthma because of how well she took care of him, but Eddie knows better. Eddie knows she’s a liar._ _

__They run until Bill hunches over a few blocks from Ben’s house, gasping for breath. He holds up one finger and braces himself against his knees, says, “Gimme a sec.”_ _

__Eddie huffs out a laugh. “It’s okay, I gotta be home soon anyway.”_ _

__“Oh thank God,” Bill says, taking a long swig of water._ _

__They walk back towards their own neighborhood in silence, listening to the crickets chirp as dusk falls over their quiet town. Eddie’s cutting it close, he knows this, but it’s worth it for this moment of peace with his best friend._ _

__“I talked to Richie today,” Eddie says, scratching at the back of his neck._ _

__Bill pretends to be nonchalant. He shrugs a bit, asks, “Yeah?” in a noncomittal tone, but Eddie sees through it easily._ _

__“Yeah,” Eddie snorts. He sobers quickly, eyes trained on his feet. “It didn’t go well.”_ _

__Bill sighs. “Of course not.”_ _

__“I, uh,” Eddie clears his throat. “I basically told him to fuck off and that we’re okay without him.”_ _

__Bill stops walking. He looks incredibly exasperated. “Eddie, why the hell did you do that?”_ _

__“Because we are,” Eddie insists, immediately defensive. Bill is his best friend, he should be high-fiving him right now for standing up against his ex._ _

__“Are we?” Bill asks, holding his hands out a little helplessly, “I miss him. I know Stan misses him like hell, would kill to have his best friend back. Bev misses him. Everyone does. Yeah, he still talks to a few of us, but it’s not the same.”_ _

__“That’s his fault,” Eddie says, “He left.”_ _

__“Did you ever stop to think about why he left?”_ _

__Eddie opens his mouth, closes it. Of course he did. It was _all_ he thought about for months on end, going back and forth with himself on what he could have possibly done to drive Richie away. Wondered how Richie could just abandon him at his lowest. Questioned why Richie really only stayed in touch with Mike and Bill and _sometimes_ Stan. Eventually, he decided it had to have been Richie’s horrible new friends and his need for constant validation that drove him away, that _took_ him away. It was the only reason that made sense to him._ _

__“Yes,” Eddie says, and is ashamed that his voice cracks, just a little._ _

__Bill’s gaze softens. “You left, too,” he says, and it feels like a punch to the throat, “You stopped talking to everyone for what felt like forever and you never once stopped to tell us why. We didn’t know what we did wrong.”_ _

__Eddie swallows. “Bill--”_ _

__“But you came back,” Bill pushes on, hands clenched tightly into fists. He meets Eddie’s eyes dead-on, determined and defiant as always. “You came back, and you finally told us why, and now we can help. Maybe...maybe Richie was just trying to come back.”_ _

__With that, Bill turns away and starts running. He probably expects Eddie to follow, to fall in step like always. But Eddie stays, watches Bill’s form become smaller the farther away he gets, waits as the streetlights flicker on and the last of the summer mosquitoes buzz around his head in a dizzying hum. He thinks about Richie, how worried he looked and how quickly he closed off, and hopes to God that he didn’t just fuck up astronomically._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit's about to go down, y'all.
> 
> *the suicidal thoughts mention is just richie asking eddie if he's suicidal, and eddie saying that he might have been once but isn't anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now you've got new friends.  
> you have all beginnings while i've got ends.  
> -shower song, fredo disco

The Losers end up split four to one, the general consensus being that Eddie was an unnecessary asshole to Richie and should probably apologize. The latter part was added on by Mike and backed by Ben, and the two of them make up about fifty percent of Eddie’s impulse control so he figures he should probably just do what they say. 

(“Or you could just punch him,” Stan had suggested with a shrug, glancing disinterestedly at his nails.

“No,” Bill had replied flatly.

Stan had thrown a fry at him and said, “You’re no fun.”)

The issue is locating Richie.

Every time Eddie thinks he catches a glimpse of a horribly-patterned shirt or a head of unruly curls, it’s gone in a flash. Richie is clearly avoiding Eddie, which is fine, because Eddie doesn’t actually _want_ to apologize. The problem is, he _also_ doesn’t want Ben to keep looking so disappointed every time Eddie has to tell him that no, he didn’t talk to Richie today. Or yesterday. 

There’s also the part of him that’s sick of feeling weirdly guilty every time he thinks of his last interaction with Richie, that wishes he could take it all back so the itchy feeling under his skin would go away and he could stop replaying his own voice saying _we’re so much better without you_ until his head spins.

So Eddie has to find Richie and force him to listen. For Ben.

“Richie is avoiding me,” Eddie announces grandly, sliding onto the bench across from Bev at lunchtime. 

Bev pauses, a single noodle hanging limply from between her lips. She slurps it up with a particularly disgusting noise that makes Eddie wince and says, “Yeah, no shit. You yelled at him.”

“You were the one who told me he wasn’t my answer,” Eddie shoots back, pushing a meatball around his tray dejectedly. He’s pouting, he knows, but he can’t help it, okay? He can’t believe his friends are taking _Richie’s_ side.

Bev snorts and rolls her eyes. “You dramatic fuck. That doesn’t mean you had to verbally assault him when he was just trying to ask if you were okay.”

“Well why does he care?” Eddie asks, letting his fork drop with a clatter. “He dumped _me_ , remember?”

“How could I forget?” Bev asks around a mouthful of spaghetti, “You’ve based your entire identity around it.”

“I have not!” Eddie all but yells, mouth gaping. 

Bev sighs and sets her fork down much more nicely than Eddie had. “Listen, babe. Going to see a therapist was a great first step and I’m so proud of you. But then you took a fifty foot leap back by letting Richie get under your skin so bad that you fuckin’ exploded. Fixating on him this much isn’t healthy, Eddie.”

Eddie leans forward, propping his chin up with both of his hands. Bev takes a pointed sip of her soda, red hair falling over her eyes. She’s right, as much as Eddie hates to admit it. She usually is. It was just...easy to fall back on the idea that if he could just _prove_ he could function without Richie, that Richie really _wasn’t_ the reason for this horrible downward spiral, he’d feel okay again. And obviously he knows it’s true--this darkness, pitch-black as the dead of night, has been in him long before he and Richie even started dating. Richie didn’t _cause_ his depression, but Eddie fucking hates to admit that a stupid _boy_ could make it so much worse.

But Richie isn’t just a boy. Richie was always the flashlight to guide Eddie home.

And now, Eddie’s been left alone in the dark.

Eddie looks down at the blue-grey lunch table, dingy and dull with scribbles and curse words. All he manages to get out is, “It’s hard,” because articulating his thoughts out loud would probably kill him. 

Bev reaches across the table and grabs his hand, warm fingers curling through his. She squeezes once, tight enough sting, and says, “I know, lovebug. You’ll get there.”

They sit like that for a while, before the cafeteria starts to buzz with incoming students and the rest of their friends make their way over one by one. Mike is the first, dropping down next to Eddie and throwing an arm around him, squeezing him into a tight half-hug. Eddie lets his head drop onto Mike’s shoulder. He smells like Old Spice deodorant and sunshine. “Hey, y’all,” Mike greets easily, eyes and voice warm as ever. He starts to unpack his massive football player lunch one-handed, to Eddie’s utter bemusement. How can one person eat that many sandwiches?

“Hiya, Mikey,” Bev says, releasing her death grip on Eddie’s hand in favor of shoving her brownie in her mouth. She sends a quick wink Eddie’s way before making room for Ben as he sits down beside her. He presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. Bill drops down on her other side, sunglasses blocking his eyes and a near-full iced coffee in his hand.

“Stan’s on a warpath,” Bill tells them, miserably. Then, eyebrows pinching together, “Y’okay, Eddie?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and he takes a deep breath, “Just cuddling.”

“Hell yeah,” Mike agrees, “Releases oxytocin. Total depression killer.”

“Why is Stan on a warpath?” Ben asks, looking concerned. “And why are you wearing sunglasses inside? Where did you get that iced coffee? It’s fifth period.”

“My head hurts and I have resources,” Bill answers vaguely, waving his hand and nearly smacking Bev in the forehead. She steals his coffee and takes a long sip, daring him to comment. Wisely, he doesn’t.

Mike snorts. “Bill drank himself into a coma last night after a fight with Stanley, woke up late with a killer hangover, and stopped at Dunkin on the way because, you know, priorities.”

Eddie’s head pops up, alarmed. “Why did you fight with Stanley?”

Bill accepts his coffee back from Bev wordlessly, taking a long sip. Eddie just barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Bill and his dramatic fucking pauses.

“We were already kind of at odds because of the whole Richie thing,” Bill starts, then glances guiltily at Eddie, “And then he told me he decided to sign with Georgia. Which is great, I mean, it’s a great school, great accounting program, great baseball team. Everything’s great.”

“Great,” Bev repeats flatly, side-eyeing Bill _hard_.

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Tell me you didn’t ask Stan to stay.”

“Of course not,” Bill says, and he sounds wounded at the thought, “I just said I’d miss him but we’d make it work. I mean, like, yeah, he was considering Penn State which obviously would have been _ideal_ because I’m trying to go to Temple but, it’s, uh, it’s f-f-fine.” 

The stutter slips in and shocks them all into silence for a moment. It’s been years since the last time Bill stuttered. This must be wrecking him.

“You freaked out, didn’t you?” Eddie asks gently, leaning forward. Bill nods his head rapidly. “Bill, it’s okay. Just talk to him. It’ll be fine. You guys are solid.”

At that moment, Stan barges into the cafeteria, looking a little worse for wear. One of the sleeves of his mustard sweater is pushed up past the elbow and there’s a grass stain on his left knee. He looks mutinous. 

“William Denbrough!”

“Ah, shit,” Bill mutters, hanging his head.

Stan stomps over, hovering behind Eddie in order for Bill to feel the full weight of his glare. Eddie is frozen in place, because Stan is terrifying and any sudden movement might result in Eddie’s swift and painful death. Mike makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat that might be a laugh or a squeak. Eddie can’t tell.

But as shitty as it sounds, it’s nice to focus on someone else’s problems for a second.

“You left my house in a panic, refused to answer any of my calls or messages, and showed up four periods late to school,” Stan says, quiet voice laced with acid, “Thanks to Mike, I know that you called him from the elementary school playground, drunk as shit and crying hysterically. He picked you up and dropped you off at home and told you to text me, which you _didn’t_.”

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” Bev whispers, looking vaguely scandalized. Bill winces.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t break up with you right fucking now,” Stan demands, and he levels an accusatory pointer finger between Bill’s eyes.

“Because you love me?” Bill offers weakly, holding his coffee out as a peace offering. Eddie wants to hit him.

Stan visibly deflates. He takes the coffee, sips it, and very pointedly does not give it back. “You’re goddamned right I do,” he says stiffly, “Get up. We’re going for a walk and we’re going to _talk_ like _adults_ , you fucking asshole.”

Bill scrambles to his feet and follows Stan out, sending one last panicked look at Eddie, who shrugs helplessly. He’s not getting in the middle of _that_.

Eddie watches them leave, then glances around the cafeteria. Richie is sitting across the room at the farthest possible table in a hideous orange grandpa sweater that bring out his eyes. He’s staring after Stan and Bill, eyebrows furrowed. Beside him, Sally Mueller elbows him until he meets her eyes with a winning smile. The rest of the table is filled with other popular, beautiful people that Richie shouldn’t fit in with, but does. A burst of color in the middle of greys and blues. The court’s favorite jester.

“So,” Ben says, breaking the silence and tearing Eddie’s attention away from Richie, “College.”

“College,” Bev agrees, blowing out a breath. “My aunt’s been up my ass about applications all summer. FIT’s deadline is in January, I don’t know why she’s freaking out so hard.”

“She cares about you.” Ben wraps an arm around Bev’s waist, pulling her closer. She sighs dramatically but doesn’t fight it, sending him a secretive smile.

Eddie is immediately uncomfortable with this conversation. College has always been a pipe-dream. A one-way ticket out of Derry was straight-up out of the question. His mother had made it clear very early on that he was to get an associate’s degree at the local community college and stay close to home. Close to her. 

“I think I might apply to some places,” Eddie offers, feeling suddenly and extremely self-aware. “I mentioned it to Dr. Estrada and she seemed to think it was a good idea.”

His friends heads all snap towards him in terrifying synchronization. “Like where?” Beverly demands, sitting straight up.

“My dream school was always Columbia,” Eddie says quietly, almost a whisper. He’s wistful in a way he never really allows himself to be, because it only leads to hurt. He fights back the urge to squash this thought down like he’s done so many times. Maybe, if he speaks it into existence, he’ll find the courage to just fucking do it.

“You’d get in, no problem,” Mike tells him, and Eddie takes a moment to feel touched about Mike’s unwavering faith in him, “You’re third in the class.”

“After Richie,” Eddie mutters, and Bev sends him a warning look. He averts his eyes and feels appropriately chastised. He’ll work on it, okay?

Ben’s earnest face is out, full-force. “You should apply, Eddie. I’m sure you’d get a nice scholarship, and your college fund would cover the rest.”

“My mom--”

“Fuck your mom,” Beverly bites out, uncharacteristically venomous. Ben grabs her hand and traces a thumb over her palm. She takes a deep breath and adds, “Eddie. Do something for yourself.”

“It doesn’t hurt to apply,” Mike adds, and his smile is cautious but encouraging, “You don’t have to go. You could always turn them down, or wait.”

“You shouldn’t,” Bev cuts in, “You shouldn’t turn them down. You should go.”

“But you could,” Ben says quickly, probably noticing the panic spreading quickly throughout Eddie. He’s always been incredibly attuned to his friends’ moods. He holds up a placating hand and says, “Just think about it.”

That’s the thing though, isn’t it? Eddie’s been thinking about this for years. Torturing himself over a future he thought he’d never have. No way out, stuck in Derry forever. Just him and his mother, fixed in a pathetic loop of reality TV and game shows until one of them dies. She’ll go first, and maybe Eddie will take her place on her wicker throne, popping blood pressure medication and eating nothing but Tastykakes, listening to the soundtrack of Steve Harvey yelling out answers on Family Feud. 

Maybe they’ll both just wither away into nothing, like they never even existed in the first place.

Or, he could go away to college, leave his mother to the future she’s resigned herself to, and make something of himself. Help people, the way he’ll never be able to help her. The way she’ll never help herself.

“I’ll think about it,” Eddie says, and Mike cheers loudly, clapping him on the back heartily.

A weight sits heavy in Eddie’s chest. When he turns eighteen, he will come into a considerable amount of money left behind by his dad. They’d been fairly wealthy, once, before Eddie’s mother blew it all on hospital bills and fake medication. Like Stan’s family. Nice house, nice car, nice life. Eddie’s dad had been an engineer. Before he was born, Eddie’s mom had been a nurse. Together, they’d made a comfortable life for themselves and for Eddie. 

When his dad got sick, he dumped a shitload of money into a savings account and locked it away from Eddie’s mom, because Eddie’s dad wasn’t stupid; he knew who he’d married. He’d left behind a considerably smaller amount for his wife, wrongly assuming she’d get a job once he kicked it. Now, the only reason they haven’t been kicked out of their house is because Eddie’s dad made the final mortgage payment a month before he died.

Eddie knows his mom is counting on his inheritance.

Eddie knows that leaving his mom alone will put her in a real bad spot.

Eddie doesn’t think he cares all that much anymore.

He forces a smile onto his face and tunes back into the conversation unfolding in front of him. His friends have tactfully left him to his thoughts, which he appreciates but acknowledges only happened because Bill isn’t here to pester him. Bill has no tact. 

“I can’t decide if I want to go to homecoming,” Bev is saying, gesturing towards a poster on the wall behind them. The theme is “50’s Sock Hop,” and someone has masterfully photoshopped “Hoco 2018!!” over the Grease movie poster and added sparkles. “Ben has work and like, do I really want to make a poodle skirt in a week? Because if I’m going to do it, I’m going all out, and that’s gonna be a bitch.”

“It’s your last one, Bev,” Mike whines, reaching across the table to shove at her arm, “Come on, don’t leave me alone with Bill and Stan.”

“If they even stay together that long,” Bev shoots back.

“Don’t joke about that,” Ben says immediately, looking alarmed.

“I’ll go with you,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds a little too loud. Bev’s head snaps towards him and there’s a glint in her eye that suddenly makes Eddie very, very nervous. “I mean, I--”

“No take backs!” Bev yells, clapping her hands together, “I can’t believe our very own Eddie Kaspbrak just asked me to _homecoming_. Am I dreaming?”

“Don’t make it a thing,” Eddie complains, sinking in his seat.

“I’m so proud of you for getting out of your comfort zone,” Ben tells him, genuine as ever. 

“Thanks, Ben,” Eddie says, feeling tired already. Beside him, Mike is fist-pumping so hard that Eddie thinks he might actually fall off the bench.

“We are going to dance the night away!” Bev slams her hands against the table, making everyone in the general vicinity of their table jump. Except Ben, because he is ten times the man Eddie will ever be for having the balls to date the force of nature that is Beverly Marsh. Ben just smiles fondly at her. “I’ll make your costume. I already have your measurements from last Halloween. Oh hell yeah, we’re going to look amazing.”

“You always do,” Ben says.

“Thanks, baby.” Beverly kisses him quickly before pulling out her sketchbook. There’s already half a swing skirt just begging to be completed on the page she flips to. “God, I’m so excited.”

“Me, too,” Eddie tells her, and he’s surprised to find it’s not a total lie.

-

On Thursday night, Eddie finds himself lying around in the grass outside of Mike’s barn. Stan and Bill are somewhere to his left; they’ve made up, but Bill is still on Stan’s shit list and Stan is now even more committed to U of Georgia than he was before, probably out of spite. They’re bickering quietly under the stars, fingers tangled loosely between them, autumn leaves settling into the grass around them. 

Bev and Ben are wrapped up under a blanket and in each other, holding onto hot chocolate mugs. They’re sitting on top of an old picnic bench by Mike’s tire swing, sharing headphones and singing to each other with exaggerated facial expressions. Eddie watches them for a long moment.

“Hey,” Mike says, plopping down in the grass next to Eddie and holding out a hot chocolate for him to take. Eddie props himself up on one elbow and accepts it gratefully, lets the mug warm his frozen fingers. The cold weather crept in steadily this year, slowly sucking the sunshine out of the day until suddenly Eddie was freezing and couldn’t figure out when that had happened.

“Hey,” Eddie says back, and he smiles. Nights like these leave Eddie feeling peaceful. He wishes with his whole heart that he’d been around for the summer barbeques. Mike’s dad makes a mean fucking steak.

“I think it’s really brave of you, thinking about college,” Mike tells him, because Mike doesn’t pull punches. “I know how it feels, the guilt. I still feel like leaving my parents with the farm is like the shittiest thing I could do.”

“You’re going to be a great teacher,” Eddie says, and he feels the truth in his bones, “Your future kids need you. You have to go to college.”

“So do you,” Mike says, voice like a gentle breeze, “Your mom might understand, she might not. But it doesn’t matter. What she puts you through, it’s not right, and you don’t owe her anything. We all have a shot at getting out of this town. We need to take it. _You_ need to take it.”

Eddie takes a long sip of his hot chocolate, shaking in his jean jacket.

Mike settles a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “This is your life, Eddie. You gotta live it the way you want to. Fuck everyone else.”

They sit together for a while as the crickets chirp and the wind sings quietly. Eventually, it gets late, and Mrs. Hanlon calls for everyone to go home. Mike jogs off to his house, waving as everyone gets into their respective cars. Eddie sits in the backseat of Ben’s beat up old Honda and thinks about leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not 100% thrilled with this chapter but asldfjdkal it needs to happen to set up the next few chapters so *shrug emoji*
> 
> richie will be in the next few chapters HEAVILY but for now have some loser's club love. as always, comments and kudos are so incredibly appreciated because i need constant validation that literally anyone cares about this story lmao


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and you know it's true,  
> you're not good til they're looking at you.  
> -upper west side, king princess

Eddie gets home from school and eats two whole Twinkies when his mother isn’t looking. As much as she eats, she gets nervous as all hell about what _Eddie_ eats. He’s been on a strict diet since he could eat solid foods. When he was little, his dad used to sneak him Kandy Kakes to hide under his pillow. Later on, Richie would smuggle Reese cups in through the window and shimmy back down the tree an hour later, high on sugar and the adrenaline of almost getting caught. 

If his mother knew how many times Richie (and occasionally Bill) had used that tree as an all-access pass to Eddie’s room, she’d have chopped it down herself years ago.

He hears his mother shift when he’s in the middle of unwrapping his third Twinkie. “Eddie-bear,” she calls, voice floating in from the living room, “What are you eating?”

“Pack of fruit snacks,” Eddie calls back, shoving the Twinkie in his pocket quickly and wincing when he feels it squish against his leg. “I need to go grocery shopping.”

In the past week, his appetite has returned with a ferocity Eddie didn’t think was possible. He guesses that six months of eating like a nineteenth-century street urchin has finally caught up to him.

“We are running a little low,” his mother tuts, sounding thoughtful, “I’ve been meaning to go.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. She’d sooner starve herself to death than leave the house to go to the supermarket. 

“It’s okay, Ma, I’ll do it,” Eddie says, sweet like syrup. He hates how his voice sounds when he talks to his mother. It’s like someone has invaded his body and momentarily taken control, replaced him with the son his mother _wants_ rather than the son his mother _has_.

“Oh, thank you, sweetheart. I’ll give you my list.”

Ten minutes later, after his mother has properly doted on him and made sure his scarf is secure around his neck, he sits behind the wheel of his dad’s old Cadillac. It’ll be his in a month, but for now, his mother only lets him drive it when he needs to go grocery shopping or she needs to be dropped off at her sister’s. He flicks the pumpkin spice scented air freshner hanging from the mirror. It dangles next to a tiny silver angel, meant to protect the driver from harm. Eddie sighs and puts the car in reverse.

The parking lot of the only supermarket in Derry in packed, filled with last minute shoppers buying hot dogs and beer to tailgate before tonight’s Homecoming game. Eddie checks his phone; he has two hours before Ben picks him up and he has to go watch a stupid football game. Mike and Bev had better be grateful. Sitting near the marching band to see Bev is going to blow out Eddie’s ear drums.

He finds what he needs quickly, throwing everything from greens his mother won’t eat to a metric shit ton of M&Ms into his cart. He balances a quart of skim milk precariously on top of a carton of eggs and pushes towards the check out lines. Eddie makes it about two aisles down before a cart goes crashing into his. He just barely catches the milk before it explodes onto the floor. 

“Motherfucking shit--”

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry--”

Eddie’s head snaps up. “Mrs. Tozier?”

“Eddie!”

Maggie Tozier is a wisp of a woman, perpetually harried-looking with black curls flying around like the laws of gravity have made an exception specifically for her. Her wide, brown eyes--Richie’s eyes--always look vaguely surprised. She’s beautiful in the way that a wilting flower might be; drained of color and much too thin, but with a stubborn elegance that refuses to die. If Eddie thinks back hard enough, he can remember who she was when he first met her, back when he and Richie were in kindergarten. Back before the stress and the vodka fucked her up irreparably. What he remembers most vividly is how her laugh sounded; a fiery, cackling sound that echoed and infected everyone near her.

Mr. Tozier, devoted as ever, spent thousands of dollars of rehab programs and therapy, but nothing ever stuck. He shielded Richie from the worst of it, but it got harder as Richie got older. Eddie has unfortunately been present for more than a few screaming matches after Richie made a tasteless joke about his mother’s alcoholism in front of his dad.

“Oh, man, sorry, I’m--How have you been?” Eddie asks, uncomfortable and unsure of just how much she knows.

Mrs. Tozier smiles quietly, tired eyes taking Eddie in. “I’ve been alright, sweetheart. What about you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, uh,” Eddie pauses, looks down at his feet, “Just been busy.”

“Richie misses you,” Mrs. Tozier says, “I can tell. Ever since his dad left, it’s been hard.”

What?

“Wentworth tried to take Richie with him but I don’t think Richie trusts me to be alone,” her smiles turns a little rueful, and she shakes her head. Stunned, Eddie watches her hair shake and bounce. “It was nice seeing you, Eddie,” she adds, voice distant. She’s already far away in her mind.

Maggie Tozier leaves Eddie in the middle of the bread aisle, humming under her breath as she goes. He’s frozen in place, watching a bead of condensation drip down the side of the pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the top of his cart. 

Richie’s dad _left?_ Fucking when?

It feels like a gut punch, leaving Eddie breathless. He suddenly feels like the worst goddamn person on the planet. He hopes to God that Richie’s new friends are helping, are watching him, are making sure he’s okay. 

Fuck, he really needs to apologize.

-

An hour and a half later, after the guilt has nearly eaten him alive, Eddie slides into the passenger seat of Ben’s mom’s minivan. There’s a sign in the back for Mike that says “Handsome Hanlon #3” and is positively _slathered_ in gold glitter. Eddie shrinks away from it instinctively, knowing in his heart of hearts that by the end of the night, he too will be covered in glittery bullshit.

Ben grins at him, and Eddie manages a wavering smile back. “Hot chocolate’s in the cup holder with that marshmallow whipped cream you like,” Ben tells him, jerking his head towards the center console. There’s a Starbucks cup with _Eddie_ and a heart written in Ben’s block handwriting.

“The universe blessed me the day you entered my life, Ben Hanscom,” Eddie says, trying to pour all the sincerity and love he feels for his friend in that one sentence. 

Ben waves him off and laughs. “Love you too, Eddie.”

There’s an indie-pop song playing over the speakers and Ben drums against the steering wheel, harmonizing with whoever the singer is because Ben is good at everything. Eddie sits and stews. He sips at his hot chocolate and lets it warm him from the inside out, but there’s ice in Eddie’s stomach that won’t melt away. He thinks of the distant look in Mrs. Tozier’s eyes, thinks of Richie’s blank stare as Eddie screamed at him. He shivers and wraps his scarf a little tighter.

“You okay, man?” Ben asks, sending a sympathetic glance Eddie’s way.

Eddie pauses, scratches at the back of his hand absently. “I just, uh. I feel bad about yelling at Richie.”

Ben nods, thoughtful. “That’s because you’re a good person, Eddie. Everyone messes up now and then.”

“He didn’t deserve it,” Eddie mutters, “He just wanted to ask if I was okay.”

“I mean, you have every right to be hurt,” Ben tells him, “You lost your best friend out of nowhere, and it was probably confusing to have him just...show up all these months later, acting like his old self. Like nothing ever happened.”

“You mean what I did to you guys?” Eddie mumbles miserably.

Ben laughs quietly. “I wasn’t trying to draw comparisons, but yeah, I guess so. The difference is, we gave you a chance to explain.” Eddie sinks a little further down in his seat until his seatbelt is digging into the bottom of his chin. Ben reaches over to pat at Eddie’s knee without looking away from the road. “Hey, listen. I’m not trying to make you feel worse. Your feelings are super valid, man. If Bev dumped me and then wanted to act like nothing happened, I’d be so upset. But you never know what happens behind the scenes, why a person acts the way they do.”

The sinking feeling feeling in Eddie’s gut is an itch he can’t scratch. 

“Richie fucked up, you know? But he still cares. You can’t just turn that off, not when you’ve loved someone for as long as he’s loved you.”

Eddie bites at the lid of his coffee cup. Over the speakers, a quiet voice sings about _all the magic we gave off, all the love we had and lost_ and Eddie thinks about warm brown eyes with flecks of gold, the way bony fingers laced through his like they were never meant to be anywhere else. “This would be easier if I had an explanation,” Eddie says, and his body feels heavy, “If he could have been like, hey, Eds, here’s an itemized list of every reason I want to stop dating you. Then at least I would _know_.”

“Life doesn’t work like that,” Ben shrugs, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, “But I think you need to let yourself be sad about Richie before you can get over him.”

“Bev said I need to stop fixating on him.”

“Well, yeah,” Ben says, “Bev’s right. She’s always right. But maybe in order to do that, you need to get all the sadness out first. Acknowledge how you feel and try to move forward. You’ve been pushing a lot down and trying to deal with it all by yourself and that’s...probably not great.”

“Right now I just feel bad about yelling at him,” Eddie says, “I acknowledge that.”

“Good start.” Ben laughs loosely, making the final right into the school parking lot. He makes quick work of finding a spot. In the distance, Eddie can hear the marching band practicing. “Stan and Bill are already inside, I think.”

“Time for a million hours of dudes tackling each other into comas,” Eddie sighs heavily, eliciting a laugh from Ben. He goes to get out, but pauses with his door on the handle. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Ben smiles at him, genuine and brilliant. “No problem.”

They walk towards the gate in companionable silence, shoulders bumping every now and then. They spot Stan up at near top of the bleachers, arms waving wildly to catch their attention. He’s wearing one of Bill’s lacrosse hoodies, but Bill himself is nowhere to be seen. Eddie takes the stairs two at a time, hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“Finally! Companionship,” Stan complains, letting his arms drop limply to his sides.

“Where’s Bill?” Ben asks, glancing around quickly. He takes a long sip of his hot chocolate and buries his other hand in his hoodie pocket. Eddie knows he’s hiding hand warmers in there for when Bev’s fingers get too cold for her to play.

Stan huffs out an annoyed noise and jerks his head towards the part of the fence the cheerleaders stand in front of. Bill’s standing on his tiptoes to lean over the gate, talking animatedly to Greta Bowie and Sally Mueller, Emma Mulaney hovering close behind. Standing next to him, cigarette dangling from his lips, is Richie. Of course.

Eddie’s stomach plummets to his feet and he sends a panicked look at Ben, who wordlessly reaches out a hand for Eddie to grab. Eddie counts backwards from ten three times before his breathing returns to as normal as it’s going to get. Ben smiles encouragingly. Eddie takes a moment and lets himself feel sad. Surprisingly, the overwhelming roaring in his ears settles into a quiet hum and gently fades into the background. Eddie sucks in a deep breath and lets it out through his nose.

“He went down to say hi but it’s been like, ten minutes,” Stan says, propping his feet up on the bench in front of him. 

“Conversations are like that, sometimes,” Ben says, and Stan throws a glove at his head.

Eddie settles down in front of Stan, leaning back against his legs. As the stadium starts to fill up with students, he watches Richie lean forward and poke at Sally’s cheek, teasing in a way that makes her giggle. Eddie can’t even dislike Sally; she’s super nice, and they’ve had French together since seventh grade. He’d tutored her freshman year and she’d made him muffins when she got her A- test grade back. As far as replacements go, she’s pretty solid. Eddie hopes she makes Richie laugh.

It’s confusing, wanting both the best and worst to happen to someone. Half of the time, Eddie wants Richie to fail a class and stub his toe, step on a lego or something. And then sometimes, like tonight, Eddie just hopes Richie’s doing okay. Maybe it’s the new information he has acquired, or maybe Eddie actually has it in him to be a good person like Ben says. 

It feels like being pushed on a swing from one extreme to the other, with no control over the speed and no way to know when he’ll stop. 

Richie laughs, and the sound floats up over the noises of the incoming students. Eddie has always been able to pick it out of a crowd, as easy as breathing. It sounds genuine. 

Stan flicks Eddie in the back of the head. “Stop wallowing.”

“Ben says I need to process my feelings and not squash them down.”

Stan squints at Ben, who nods sagely. “Proceed, then,” Stan allows, graciously. 

“Nah, a distraction would be nice,” Eddie admits, “One step at a time, right?”

Ben ruffles at Eddie’s hair and Stan starts to sing that Jordin Sparks song from forever ago under his breath before launching into a detailed explanation of the latest Buzzfeed Unsolved episode. Despite his request for a distraction, Eddie finds his attention drifting back over to Richie, which is...not ideal. He watches Richie pull a flask out of his pocket and glance around before taking a long swig. Bill rolls his eyes at him, but accepts it when Richie offers. The girls laugh and Eddie feels like he’s watching a coming-of-age movie unfold right before his eyes. 

Richie takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke into the air. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes it out, glances around at the incoming crowd. Eddie watches as Richie coughs and accepts his flask back from Bill. He knocks a good amount back before shoving it into his pocket.

Bill claps Richie on the back, bids the girls goodbye, and jogs back to his seat. He looks happy, and for a moment Eddie is worried that Stan will make a nasty comment about Richie and the night will be marred by tension and awkward silences. He doesn’t, and Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Whatever Richie has in that thing is fuckin’ strong,” Bill announces, shaking his head. He curls up under Stan’s waiting arm, presses his face into Stan’s neck, and sighs contentedly. 

“Super illegal,” Stan comments mildly. His fingers comb through Bill’s hair gently.

“Yep,” Bill agrees, easily enough. Ben snorts.

Eddie shifts in his seat, eyes trained on the back of Richie’s head. “What did you guys talk about?” He tries to keep his voice calm, disinterested, but he can tell by the sympathetic look Ben shoots him that he missed the mark.

“Just catching up,” Bill says, voice muffled against Stanley’s shoulder. He sits up, shifting underneath Stan’s arm. “Asked me if I was going to the dance. I said yes, obviously, even though Stan hasn’t asked me yet--”

“Why do I have to ask you? You should ask me, asshole--”

“And Sally invited me to her Halloween party, next Saturday. She invited all of us, actually, which I thought was pretty nice of her.”

“I think I’ll be busy that night,” Stan says, voice vague, “Watching paint dry and listening to NPR.”

“Oh, count me in,” Ben says distractedly. “Sounds like a blast.”

The marching band is making their way out to the field, drum beats echoing throughout the stadium. They stop at the bottom of the bleachers and file up the steps one by one. Bev’s at the front, drum hanging from her chest. She waves at them brightly before setting her drum down, bumping shoulders good-naturedly with the boy beside her. Eddie thinks he might be a freshman. Another drummer says something and the three of them laugh, heads thrown back. 

His gaze drifts back over to the fence, where the cheerleaders have started to pick up their pom poms and giant megaphones. Their coach claps a couple of times, and Sally goes up on her tiptoes to kiss Richie quickly. A few rows back, Marcia Fadden crosses her arms and huffs. Richie grins and goes pounding up the bleacher steps, towards a group of assorted jocks and Hot Girls that roar happily when he comes close enough.

The football team runs onto the field to cheers and a triumphant fight song from the band. Eddie squints, looking out for Mike. Beside him, Ben has stood up and is waving around his sparkly sign like a maniac. Glitter rains down on Eddie and settles in his hair, on his shoulders. He'd be pissed if Ben wasn't so endearing, bouncing around like Mike's biggest fan. The announcer is yelling out names of players that Eddie’s known since kindergarten. He’s never even had a full conversation with more than half of them. When Mike’s name and number is announced, Eddie and his friends lose it along with the rest of the crowd, stomping their feet against metal. 

Eddie tries his best to pay attention to the game but football is horrible and boring and Eddie hates it. He zones out often, ignoring Bill’s running commentary of every stupid mistake the players make. “I should be the coach,” Bill grumbles, “Flaherty doesn’t know what he’s--oh, COME ON! Fuck!”

“Can you like...chill?” Stan shoves at Bill lightly, rolling his eyes.

The game drags on. Eddie keeps himself entertained by ranking the players butts. So far, number forty-three on the opposing team is winning by a landslide.

Derry High pulls a win out of their asses at the very last minute, and the crowd goes nuts. The band launches into a spirited rendition of “All I Do Is Win.” Bill stands on his seat and dances enthusiastically, using Stan’s shoulder to steady himself. Eddie stays put, watches as Richie stumbles away from his friend group, hands thrown in the air and screaming wildly. 

“Hell yeah, bitches!” He yells out, running quickly up the steps. He grabs a stick out of the largest bass drum’s hand and starts to hit the drum, which Eddie knows is _super_ not allowed. Bev looks mutinous. 

“Richard,” she hisses, and she turns around to smack his hand away. The stick goes clattering to the ground. “Are you drunk?”

“Yeah! How’d you know?”

“Get out of here before I rip your head off.”

“I miss you,” Richie says, and he reaches forward to lace their fingers together.

Bev’s face softens, just a little. “Then fucking talk to me, you asshole.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“Well, you’re an idiot.”

Richie lets out a bark of laughter and presses a wet, smacking kiss to her cheek. He stumbles up a few more steps, all but falling into Eddie’s lap. Eddie freezes. Richie rights himself quickly enough and sends a dazzling smile to Stan, who narrows his eyes.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Stan asks, “Are you drunk at a school-sanctioned event?”

“Yes I am, Staniel!” Richie fucking _finger guns_ in Stan’s direction. “I’m here with an announcement.”

“What do you want?” Stan asks, voice flat.

“To tell you that you’re still my best friend even though you hate me and I miss you so fuckin’ bad I think I’m dying sometimes.”

Stan blanches. Bill reaches over discreetly to grab his hand.

Richie turns a little and startles, almost as if he’s just noticed that Eddie is also here. “Look!” he yells, gesturing wildly in Eddie’s directions, “It’s Eddie! Eddie hates me. Hi, Eddie!”

Eddie’s gut twists painfully. He watches Richie sway, smells the alcohol on his breath. Mr. Tozier was always so scared that Richie was going to end up like his mom.

“Hi, Richie,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds foreign, broken. “Do you really think drinking like this is a good idea?”

Richie cocks his head to the side. A slow grin makes its way onto his face, eyes manic and blown wide open. He looks a little unhinged. “Why? Worried about me, Eds?”

Eddie takes a deep, measured breath. Eddie counts to ten. Eddie says, “Yes. Of course.”

Richie stares at him for a long moment, the smile disappearing into nothingness until Richie’s left looking a little lost. “Why?”

“Because I care about you,” Eddie tells him, “And I’m sorry I yelled at you for trying to care about me.”

Somewhere behind him, Stan makes a choked little noise. Richie blinks once, twice. Stares at Eddie, expression searching, like he’s waiting for someone to jump out and yell “Syke!” Eddie holds his gaze, stomach twisting in knots.

“Yeah?” Richie asks, uncertain.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, honest.

“Yo, Rich, let’s go!” It’s Mason Dunbar again, calling out from the bottom of the bleachers, “Marcia’s house for the after party!”

Richie snaps out of whatever daze he’s been caught in. He finally, finally breaks eye contact and stands up, jerky and stilted in his moments. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you guys around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stan says faintly, clutching at Bill’s hand.

Richie clambers down the bleachers, swaying and stumbling as he goes. Ben leans down and touches Eddie’s shoulder lightly, says, “I’m proud of you, man.”

“Thanks,” Eddie chokes out. He watches Richie duck his head, paste on a smile. People clap his back and jostle him amiably. Every inch of Eddie is screaming to go after him, tell him to stay, ask to talk.

He doesn’t, and Richie disappears into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! i appreciate all your comments and kudos i'm so glad y'all are enjoying my lil story! if you want, you can follow me on tumblr @ ravenclawtozier


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's okay to say you've got a weak spot.  
> you don't always have to be on top.  
> better to be hated  
> than loved, loved, loved for what you're not.  
> -i am not a robot, marina and the diamonds

Eddie spends most of the weekend in a trance. Bev says that apologizing must have shocked his system, considering how few times he’s ever admitted to being wrong. Eddie wants to be offended, but she’s probably right. 

On Sunday morning, Eddie sits in a pew next to his mother and listens to a priest scream about fire and brimstone while his mother nods along emphatically. The Denbroughs used to go to this church, and Eddie sorely misses turning to Bill and making faces at him. They’d skip Sunday school and go talk shit about organized religion behind the bushes. But the Denbroughs will never be allowed back, because last year they’d stood up in the middle of a sermon condemning homosexuality and marched their only remaining son right out the door. They were written off as sinners who would go straight to hell along with their horrible sodomite of a son. 

But God bless little Georgie, of course. May he rest in peace.

Not for the first time, Eddie wonders what it's like to have parents that _actually_ give a shit. Not just the ghost of a mother who guilts and schemes and does everything in her power to repress the parts of Eddie that she doesn’t like.

After church, Eddie helps his mother out to the car, faking a smile and shaking hands with all of the assholes who would spit in his face if they knew the real Eddie. “What a lovely sermon,” his mother comments lightly, fanning at her face with a program. 

“Yeah, Ma,” Eddie agrees. His grip on the steering wheel is so tight his knuckles lose all color.

They drive home in silence, or, rather, Eddie does; his mother fills the stale air with useless tangents on soap operas that Eddie has missed since he started going out with his _horrible friends_ again, leaving his poor mother to suffer _all alone_. Eddie turns the radio up a little higher and tries not to explode.

They go straight home and Eddie pounds up the stairs to his bedroom while his mom settles in her chair for the day. In an hour or so, Eddie will have to go downstairs and make her lunch but for now, he’s going to soak up every second of alone time he can.

He puts his Spotify on shuffle and lies down on his bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest like a shield. Music fills the room, drowning out the sounds of his mother shuffling downstairs. Eddie stares at the cork board across from his bed, and he thinks.

The board is covered in pictures; a storyboard of Eddie’s happiest moments. The most recent one is of him on Ben’s shoulders at Derry’s Spring Carnival, last year. It was one week before Richie dumped him. They’d held hands under the picnic table while they shared cotton candy. Richie’s mouth had been stained blue for hours and he’d tasted like sugar.

Eddie remembers it vividly; most of junior year is a blur, the depth of his depression clouding all of his best memories, but not that one. A moment of clarity in the storm.

He didn’t have a name for it back then, the creeping cold in his bones that didn’t disappear with the winter snow. Depression. The days spent in bed, not eating, ignoring calls from Richie and Bill and Bev and Mike until they stopped trying. Wishing he could curl up so tightly he’d just disappear. Feeling flat, thin as paper. He knows, now. 

Naming your monsters makes them feel a little easier to beat, somehow.

Eddie wonders if Richie will take Sally to the carnival, when the Spring flowers sprout out of half-dead grass and the birds chirp with a hopefulness that will inevitably break Eddie’s heart. Maybe they’ll kiss at the top of the ferris wheel the same way. 

As much as Eddie is _trying to be the bigger person_ , he really fucking hopes they don’t.

-

Eddie averages approximately two visits to Dr. Estrada per day in the week that follows, because things have been _weird_ , since Eddie apologized to Richie. Monday morning, they’d accidentally locked eyes and for the first time since school began, Richie had offered a tiny wave and something that resembled a smile. Eddie had been too shocked to reciprocate for almost a full minute before he nodded back. Immediately after, he’d ran to guidance and told Dr. Estrada _everything_ about Richie.

On Tuesday, Richie had pulled at a wayward strand of Bev’s hair as he’d walked by. Bev had turned around, ready to ream into whoever dared to touch her, only to be face to face with Richie’s shit-eating grin. She’d punched him in the arm lightly and said, “Hey, fuckface.”

“Hey, Marshmallow.”

“Walk me to class,” Bev said, shoving her books into Richie’s waiting arms.

“Thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.”

Eddie had watched them leave from just outside of his French class, mind racing a million miles a minute. 

And then yesterday, Stan had walked by Richie at his locker, stopped, and turned around with a determined look on his face. Eddie and Bill had watched with bated breath from a few feet away as Stan tapped Richie lightly on the shoulder. Richie had spun around, charming smile dropping into something genuine and even a little bit scared. 

“Hi, Richie,” Stan had said, stiffly.

“Hey, Stan.” Richie’s shoulders were tense, fingers twitching at his side.

Stan had nodded once and turned on his heels, marching off in the opposite direction. Richie had smiled after him so brightly it felt like the sun was rising in Eddie’s chest.

So yeah. It had been a weird week. Richie still sat with the Hot People™ at lunch, still hung around them in the hallways, was surrounded by them in class. But he also made small talk with Ben in the lunch line, picked Bill as his partner for an Anatomy project, walked Bev to her sixth period. Smiled at Eddie hesitantly but sincerely and waved unti Eddie waved back.

Dr. Estrada says that maybe he’s trying to make amends. It makes a voice in the back of Eddie’s head that sounds annoyingly like Bill say, “I fuckin’ told you, dude!”

He’s walking out of her office on Friday after a very lengthy discussion about Richie that leaves him realing when Bev appears out of nowhere. She locks arms with him and immediately begins dragging him down the hallway.

“Hi,” she says, smiling with all of her teeth.

“Jesus,” Eddie says, “Hey.”

“I have your costume for tonight,” Bev tells him cheerfully, “Your shirt matches my skirt. It’s all very cute, just like us.” She jostles him a little, hip bumping gently against his. “Thanks for coming with me. It means a lot.”

Eddie smiles at her, resting his head against hers for a moment before pulling away. She squeezes his arm with her free hand and Eddie feels at peace. He thinks that tonight might not be so bad after all, as long as he’s got Bev by his side.

“I’ll drive you to my house right after school so you can avoid your mom screeching at you for as long as possible. My aunt will probably pick up pizza so we can gorge ourselves and then get ready together. I need to make sure everything fits exactly as I want it to or I’ll lose it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Eddie says mildly.

“Definitely,” Bev agrees, “Stan, Bill, and Mike are coming at six for pictures and then we’ll go. I think we’re all sleeping at Bill’s afterwards.” At Eddie’s affronted glance, Bev laughs. “I planned everything without you because I figured you’d freak out if I made you do anything more than the bare minimum.”

Eddie pauses, then says, “Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

The rest of the day goes by in a weird blur, both excitement and dread pooling in the pit of Eddie’s stomach. On one hand, dances are fun. Eddie loves to dance. On the other hand, he’s going to spend the whole night feeling like something’s missing and wishing he was dancing with someone about seven inches taller than Bev and approximately thirty times more annoying.

Eddie slides into the passenger seat of Bev’s puke green Beetle, squashing empty water bottles and take-out bags under his feet. “Clean your car,” Eddie says, vaguely disgusted and incredibly worried about what that brown stain on the dashboard is.

Bev rolls her eyes. “Everyone’s a goddamn critic.”

Eddie shoots his mom a quick text-- _going to hoco don’t wait up_ \--and turns his phone off. Tomorrow, there will be hell to pay. Tonight, Eddie doesn’t want to fucking worry about it.

They drive to the outskirts of Derry, where Bev and her aunt live. Their house is tinier than the rest of their friends’ houses, but it’s Eddie’s favorite. Just the site of the lopsided little house makes him feel warmer than he has in ages. He takes in the bright teal door, the window boasting a “Feel the Bern 2020” sign, the plastic flamingos sticking out at odd angles in the grass outside. Eddie loves Bev’s house.

Bev’s Aunt Lydia isn’t home yet, so they go straight down the hall to Bev’s room. It’s almost as messy as her car, cuts of fabric hanging off of all of her furniture and glitter all over the floor. Her walls are bright yellow and covered in movie posters. Eddie flops onto her bed--the sheets have little llamas on them--and waits until she lies down next to him.

“It’s been a weird week,” Eddie says.

“Mhm,” Bev agrees, twisting to her side and propping herself up on one elbow. She pinches one of Eddie’s cheeks and adds, “But it’s gonna be an unforgettable night!”

-

By the time Mike, Stan, and Bill get to Bev’s house, Eddie has eaten three slices of pizza and been stuck with a needle four times while Bev was fixing his pants. His hair is poofed up like Elvis and he’s wearing thrift store saddle shoes that Bev _swore_ she sanitized. It’s a measure of how much he loves her that he even _considered_ putting them on.

Bev’s Aunt Lydia takes so many pictures that Eddie’s cheeks start to hurt from smiling. Bill is hamming it up for the camera, lifting Stan bridal-style and posing like an idiot. Eddie thinks they’d better get a move on before Stan kills his date.

“Have fun, be safe, love you all!” Aunt Lydia calls, shooing them all out the door. 

They pile into Bill’s car (Bev gets shotgun so her skirt doesn’t wrinkle) and head to the school, blasting eighties music despite Stan’s frequent complaints that, “It’s the wrong decade, you idiots!”

Bev turns it up louder in response.

Eddie feels light, laughing in the backseat of his best friend’s car with some of his favorite people in the world. Mike’s got an arm slung around him and they’re all singing along to The Cure with the windows down just enough so that Bev and Stan’s hair won’t get messed up. They pull into the parking lot and walk towards the gym, falling over each other in laughter. It feels nice. Right, even. Normal.

Bev immediately pulls Eddie out to dance, Bev’s emerald green skirt swirling around her like a dream. Eddie twirls her through the crowd, dancing his heart out. He breathes deeply, lets the heavy air of the gym fill his lungs, and silently curses his mom for ever depriving him of this feeling. He could have spent years dancing with Bev. Instead, he spent years thinking he’d never dance because of his asthma.

“Get out of your head, Kaspbrak,” Bev demands, shimmying her shoulders menacingly at him. Eddie laughs as the DJ launches into a song from Grease that makes the entire room scream. 

They dance for what feels like forever, until the sweat dripping down Eddie’s back is too much and he needs a drink. Bev follows him to the punch bowl, accepting a cup when he hands it to her. She takes a sip and sighs happily. “Someone spiked the punch,” she says, and Eddie makes sure to take a huge gulp.

“Wow, you guys look great!”

It’s Sally, bouncing over to them in a full-on Sandy outfit, blonde hair curled to perfection and body wrapped up in tight black spandex. Eddie has no idea how she’s walking in heels that high but he respects the fuck out of her for it.

“Bev made our costumes,” Eddie tells her, trying to swallow the bitterness he feels just looking at her. Bev strikes a pose and Sally laughs, light as a bell. She’s beautiful, Eddie thinks miserably, shoulders slumping. He takes another long swig of his punch. Bev hip checks him gently and Eddie is reminded of a promise she made in the darkness of Stan’s basement--” _Never let me drink that much again_.” Guess she intends to keep it. Too bad.

“You look amazing, too,” Bev says, “That body won’t quit, huh?”

Sally flushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Beverly. It’s such a basic costume, but I thought it was cute, you know? Richie’s somewhere, dressed like Danny.”

Eddie drains the rest of his cup. Bev steps on his foot, hard.

“It’s super cute,” Bev assures her, “Hey, let’s go find Richie. Eddie was just about to get some air.”

“I was?” Eddie mutters, refilling his cup. 

Bev snatches it out of his hands, eyes flashing. “Yep,” she says cheerfully, before grabbing Sally’s hand and pulling her into the crowd. Eddie sighs, stares briefly at his empty hand, and heads towards the door. “Hopelessly Devoted” starts playing over the speakers, and Eddie immediately feels like punching a wall. He watches Stan and Bill sway together across the gym, smiling and whispering to each other as they dance. 

“Fuck,” Eddie says, and he pushes the door open.

The cold air hits him like a slap in the face but it helps, almost. Dr. Estrada had agreed with Ben--he has to _feel_ his _feelings_. She told him it was alright to excuse himself, to take some time to process what was going on in his head and his heart. Right now, Eddie feels like he might throw up. He’s not sure that’s what she meant.

Eddie plops down onto a bench and leans forward, head in his hands. Olivia Newton-John’s voice floats out of the gymnasium, singing about how she’ll never get over John Travolta and God, it’s depressing. Sally-as-Sandy is probably in there slow dancing with Richie-as-Danny and singing along quietly while Richie smiles into her hair.

Eddie’s definitely going to puke.

The smell of cigarette smoke wafts into his face and that’s just about all he can take. He lifts his head to chew out whoever is ruining his pity party with _nicotine_ and sees Richie, standing about a foot away and frowning. 

“Don’t yell at me,” Richie says warily, “But are you okay?”

Eddie lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah, yes. Just needed air.”

Richie frowns deeper. “Can I sit?”

Tonight can’t get much worse, can it? Everything in Eddie is screaming at him to say _no_ , definitively and clearly. 

Eddie thinks of Richie smiling carefully in the hallway and decides, fuck it. Olive branch. 

He’s so sick of being so angry all the time. Maybe it’s time to not-kiss and make up.

“Sure,” Eddie says, sliding over. Richie settles in next to him, a good six inches in between them. He’s wearing a leather jacket and tight black jeans cuffed at the ankle, scuffy black keds on his feet. He looks good. Really good. 

Eddie wants to die.

“Your girlfriend was looking for you,” Eddie says, wincing slightly at how accusatory _your girlfriend_ sounded. “You know, Sally,” he adds, like Richie could fucking forget.

Richie glances at him and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “She’s, uh. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Sorry,” he says, “Your, uh...hook up? Is looking for you?”

Richie makes a frustrated little noise. “No, that’s not--” He cuts himself off, huffs out a deep breath. “We’re not together, in any capacity.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, “You can’t tell anyone but, um, Sally doesn’t...Sally likes Emma Mulaney.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a beat, both boys shifting awkwardly in their seats. Eddie scratches at the back of his neck. Richie’s leg jumps a mile a minute and Eddie wants so badly to reach out and still him.

Eddie keeps his hands firmly in his lap.

“I’m a cover, for her,” Richie adds, glancing up at Eddie, “Her parents were getting suspicious and we got really close over the summer so she asked me if I’d help her out and I said yeah, because I know how that feels. I’m only, like, half-gay and it’s fucking terrifying.”

Eddie snorts before he can stop himself. Richie smiles and it feels like the sunlight bursting through the clouds. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Eddie says, miming locking his lips. Then, hesitantly, he adds, “If she, um, needs anyone to talk to, you can. You can tell her I...get what she’s going through. If she needs a friend.”

Richie watches him for a long moment. “I’ll tell her,” he says, smile and voice going quiet. Gentle. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, his throat feeling tight. He watches Richie stub the cigarette out with his foot. Without thinking, he says, “I saw your mom the other day. At the grocery store.”

Richie’s smile dims, just a little. “She mentioned it. Said she misses you.”

Eddie nods, mostly to himself. He glances at Richie, adds, “She told me about your Dad.”

Richie stiffens, shoulders rigid and face tight. In a second, it’s gone, replaced by a relaxed demeanor that Eddie doesn’t buy for a second. Richie leans against the back of the bench and angles his body away from Eddie, says, “Shit happens, you know?” He says it casually, but Eddie can see the way his right hand clenches, the way his eyes won’t meet Eddie’s anymore.

“You don’t have to do that,” Eddie says, gently, “You can let yourself be sad.”

Richie blinks twice, startled. Eddie leans over and, before he can bitch out, grabs Richie’s hand. He squeezes once, and lets go. Eddie stands up quickly, the feeling of Richie’s skin burning Eddie’s palm, and heads towards the door. Bev’s probably waiting for him, and the last thing he needs is her coming out here to find him with Richie. He doesn’t know if she’d be pissed or ecstatic, but he doesn’t really care to find out. 

He makes it all the way to the door, his hand on the handle, when Richie calls his name. It isn’t much more than a whisper carried by the wind. Eddie’s half-sure he imagined it, until he turns around and sees Richie staring at him, eyes wide and lost-looking.

“Eddie,” Richie says again, a little louder this time. “It fucking sucks.”

Eddie smiles sadly and nods, once. “I’m sorry, Rich.”

Richie holds his gaze. “Me too.”

The air between them is charged, filled with shitty feelings that neither of them particularly want to deal with, now or ever. There are so many things Eddie wants to say, starting with _come dance with me_ , because he always loved the way Richie fit against him when they moved.

They both stay quiet, and Eddie turns away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scroll to the bottom for trigger warnings. happy whatever you celebrate, if you celebrate anything!
> 
> loving you was sunshine, but then it poured  
> and i lost so much more than my senses.  
> cause loving you had consequences.  
> -consequences (orchestra), camila cabello

As soon as Eddie’s inside, Stan finds him, flushed and happy from dancing. Eddie starts, his brain firing on all cylinders to catch up with his body. Stan wrinkles his nose immediately, asks, “Why do you smell like smoke? Did you start smoking?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, insulted. He pulls at his shirt self-consciously, silently praying that Stan doesn’t make the connection between the smoke-smell and Richie. But Stan only shoots him a wicked grin, leans closer. His breath smells like punch. “Are you drunk?”

“Getting there,” Stan says easily, grabbing Eddie by the elbow. “Come on, Bev’s looking for you. Ben would be horrified to know you’ve kept her waiting. He was nice enough to loan you his girlfriend, you should be more respectful.”

Eddie snorts. “Bev loaned herself out,” he says, but he lets himself be pulled.

The crowd is thick and Eddie feels sticky, claustrophobic after being outside for so long. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richie slip inside and head towards the punch bowl. Eddie misses the cold air on his face, the warmth radiating from Richie just a few inches away.

Bev is still with Sally, who no longer sets of Eddie’s fight or flight response because now he _knows_. They’re talking animatedly, laughing and bumping against each other like old friends. Eddie has the weirdest urge to hug Sally, tell her it’ll be okay, but Richie trusted him with a secret and he’s not going to blow it. Instead, he offers her the nicest smile he can muster and says, “Richie was just outside smoking. He’ll probably come find you soon.”

Bev raises an eyebrow and Eddie feels Stan start in surprise beside him. Sally just smiles, as genuine as ever, and says, “Thanks, Eddie. I’m sure he appreciated the company.”

Eddie suddenly wonders how much _she_ knows about _him_.

Bev’s fingers dig into Eddie’s arm and she gives him a look that always means _we’ll talk later_. “Stanley,” she says, regally, holding out her hand. Stan takes it and bows. “It would be an honor to dance with you.”

Stan whisks her away, leaving Eddie to stand awkwardly across from Sally and watch as his two traitorous friends abandon him. He wonders if this was their plan all along, some kind of exposure therapy. Backstabbing assholes. 

Sally just keeps on smiling at him, knowing and kind in a way that somehow makes Eddie feel worse. His ex-boyfriend’s not-girlfriend probably knows that he’s all kinds of fucked up and is trying to put him at ease, but all Eddie wants to do is excuse himself and get belligerently drunk.

That’s when Bill appears like the guardian angel he’s always been, sweaty and beaming. “Hi, guys!” he all but yells, slinging an arm around Sally. She teeters on her precarious heels and laughs, high and pretty like a bell. 

“Hi, Bill,” she says fondly, patting his chest as he helps steady her. “You just missed Stan.”

“Balls!” Bill shouts, loud enough to drown out the crooners blasting from the speakers for a moment. Eddie laughs, the knot in his chest loosening. His best friend is here and it’s okay. He’s okay.

The knot snaps back into place when Richie siddles up behind Bill like a creep and lifts him off the ground in one fluid movement. Bill makes an ungodly squawking noise that turns into a happy laugh when he realizes who’s holding him up. Richie sets him down and settles an arm around Sally’s shoulders. She leans against him like it’s second nature.

Eddie knows it’s not real, but it still hurts to watch.

Sally’s warm brown eyes meet his, and her expression changes into something sad. Sympathetic, maybe. Okay, so she definitely knows. It makes sense; she trusted Richie with something huge, so Richie trusted her with something huge. A secret for a secret. Doesn’t stop Eddie from feeling slightly betrayed, but whatever. He’ll get over it. 

Maybe that’s why Richie told Eddie about Sally. Settle the score, make it even.

A secret for a secret. 

Richie grins, blowing one strategically loose curl out his face. The rest of his hair is gelled back into some approximation of an old greaser hairstyle. Eddie hadn’t gotten too good a look when they were outside, vision clouded by the night and the panic thrumming under his skin, but...God, Richie looks wonderful. Eddie usually rolls his eyes at the whole _born in the wrong decade_ bullshit but here among the big band music and the swing skirts, Richie looks right at home. 

There’s always been something almost timeless about Richie, from the rock ‘n roll records kept in pristine condition next to his grandpa’s old record player to the clothes he scours thrift store after thrift store to find. Mike’s the history buff of the group, always has been, but Richie’s always been fascinated by anything old. Bill says its because Richie’s a goddamned hipster, but Eddie knows better. No hipster Eddie’s ever met has ever put so much effort into learning how _lindy hop_ the way Richie did two summers ago, with Eddie as his (not so) unwilling partner. Eddie had been so scared Richie would drop him, but he hadn’t been able to say no to that excited gleam in Richie’s eyes.

(Eddie’s fear had not been unfounded. Richie dropped him so many fucking times.)

“Hey, Bill,” Richie says, swaying to the music because he can’t quite help himself. “Hey, Eds,” he adds gently, and Eddie’s stomach does a weird little flip at the nickname after so many months of radio silence.

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie offers back, smiling a little hesitantly. Sally looks between them and beams like someone’s just told her she won a million dollars, which Eddie thinks is a gross overreaction. It also makes him wonder what the fuck else Richie’s told her.

Bill, to his credit, doesn’t even bother looking confused. He just slings his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and gives him a little shake. “The hair is pretty dope, Rich, I’m not gonna lie--”

“Alright, alright, let’s slow things down a little!” the DJ yells, in direct contrast to the song he plays next. It’s slow and about as classic 1950’s as you can get, lots of _ooohs_ and vibrato and the kind of beat that’s easy to float across a dance floor to. Eddie watches as Richie’s face sort of drops, and he knows his face must be doing something similar because Bill glances at him, worried. 

Sally bunches her fingers in the back of Richie’s black tee shirt and shoves him forward, smile firmly in place. There’s something a little devious in her eyes when Richie glares back at her half-heartedly. “If you wanted to dance, you could have just asked,” Richie tells her, going for relaxed but missing by a mile.

“You know that’s not what I want,” Sally says, rather ominously, in Eddie’s opinion.

Richie sighs, looking pained. “Sal--”

Bill glances between the two of them. After a moment, he seemingly decides to nope the fuck out of whatever couple’s quarrel is about to go down. He offers a hand to Eddie and asks, with his most winning smile, “Since my date stole your date, can I steal you?”

There’s a brief moment where Eddie’s inner alarm goes off, screaming at him that he’s still in the closet, that he shouldn’t be drawing attention to himself by dancing with a guy even if that guy is only Bill. The moment passes much quicker than it usually does, which Eddie counts as progress. His smile is only a little shaky when he accepts Bill’s hand.

(For a second, he thinks he hears Sally hiss, “You missed your chance, you idiot,” but when Bill swings him around, Sally and Richie are dancing like normal.)

Bill tugs Eddie around in some exaggerated version of a waltz that has Eddie in tears, half-bent over in laughter. No one even glances their way, and what the fuck was Eddie even worried about? He’s allowed to dance with his best friend. He’s allowed to have these tiny moments of untainted happiness, as few and far between as they feel, sometimes. 

Lately, though, it feels like maybe happy could be Eddie’s new normal, if only he could just step out of his own way.

Just beyond Bill, Eddie can see Richie and Sally spinning in slow circles, her arms around his neck and his around her waist. Sally’s eyes are trained just over Richie’s shoulder--she’s like a goddamn skyscraper in those heels--where Emma Mulaney is dancing and giggling with Mason Dunbar. And Richie--

Richie’s looking straight at Eddie.

Of course, he looks away as soon as Eddie catches him staring. He hides his face behind Sally’s massive curls, which might look sweet and loving to anyone that doesn’t know their entire relationship is a lie. Sally turns to whisper something to Richie and he huffs out out a laugh that rustles her hair. He pulls back to look at her, and his expression is filled with so much open adoration that Eddie almost chokes. 

“Don’t torture yourself like this, Eds,” Bill whispers, and their shitty dancing turns into something more like a swaying hug. 

“M’not,” Eddie mumbles into Bill’s shoulder, his eyes still firmly fixed on Richie.

“You totally are.”

Eddie sighs. “Yeah,” he admits, “I totally am.” 

Richie looks back at Eddie and his face falls, just a little. Eddie hates being the reason Richie looks so upset, even if this entire goddamn thing is Richie’s fault. It should be the two of them together at this stupid dance, taking dumb pictures in front of the sparkly backdrop by the entrance and swaying together. Eddie should be pressed up against Richie, one hand on Richie’s shoulder and the other wrapped up in Richie’s. Richie should be looking at _him_ like that, except it would be real. It was always real.

Eddie steps away from Bill abruptly. “I’m going to get something to drink.” He starts in the opposite direction before Bill can try to say something encouraging or anything else that will probably make Eddie cry. He doesn’t need uplifting right now. He needs to wallow, even if it's just for a little bit.

Eddie makes it to the punch bowl and pours himself a generous amount, downing half of it in one go. He’s disappointed to discover that the original punch has been replaced by something decidedly non-alcoholic. It’s probably for the best, seeing as Eddie doesn’t have a great track record of making smart decisions while he’s intoxicated. He glances back, sees that Stan is dancing with Bill, their forehead pressed together as Bill attempts to sing along to the song despite the fact that he clearly doesn’t know it. Bev is being twirled repeatedly by Mike, laughing and nearly falling over when he finally stops. 

The slow song ends, replaced by a fast-paced rock ‘n roll song that Eddie vaguely recognizes and Richie is probably losing his shit over. Sure enough, when Eddie looks back out into the crowd, he sees Richie swinging Bev around like she weighs nothing. She laughs loud enough that Eddie can hear her over the loud and erratic guitars, and he almost smiles at the sound. He knocks back the rest of his drink and wishes more than anything he could just go to bed.

Someone drops down in the seat next to him, the chair scraping across the floor as they move closer. Sally crosses her legs and leans forward, knocks their shoulders together. “Hey,” she says, a little hesitant.

Eddie offers what he hopes is a welcoming smile. “Hi.”

“I know you probably don’t like me very much.”

“I don’t...not like you,” Eddie offers, which is really the best he can do. Sally laughs, and Eddie finds himself smiling against his will. Then, because why not just fucking go for it, he adds, “Besides, hating your ex’s new girlfriend is stupid and toxic. I go to therapy, so I know.” 

Sally laughs again, lets her head fall forward. “I wasn’t sure if you knew that _I_ know about you and Richie.”

Eddie shrugs. “I took a wild guess.” He picks at a loose thread in his pants. “You kept looking at me like I was gonna break if you even touched Richie in front of me.”

“I know what it’s like to see someone you love with someone else,” she says, fake-casual in a way that reminds Eddie startlingly of Richie. She glances over at him and their eyes meet. “Richie told me that you know. About me.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Sally shoots him a crooked little grin. “Deal.”

They sit in silence for a little while, long enough for Eddie to wonder why Sally’s still sitting with him and not dancing with Richie or her friends. Then, Eddie follows her gaze to where Emma is dancing with Marcia and a bunch of football players, and he gets it. She’s avoiding her friends for the same reason he’s avoiding his. Two peas in a pod, really. Richie sure knows how to pick the most depressing people to surround himself with.

“He misses you, you know,” Sally says suddenly, head tilting towards Eddie. “Talks about you all the time. I won’t tell you what he says because I’m not like Richie. I don’t go around spilling other people’s secrets.” Her voice is fond, warm, and Eddie finds himself glad that Richie has her.

“I…” Eddie stops, takes a deep breath. “You ever miss someone that’s right there?”

The sad smile Sally gives him in return in answer enough.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asks, “When he’s ready to talk...can you promise me you’ll listen? Even if you punch him in the face afterward, which, you know. Wouldn’t blame you.”

That startles a laugh out of Eddie. As much as he hates to admit it, he really likes Sally. “Yeah,” Eddie agrees, even though it’s probably going to be a huge mistake if Eddie’s usual luck is any indication, “I’ll listen.”

-

Bill, who has miraculously managed to stay sober for one whole social event, drives them all back to his house when the dance is over. Eddie can’t say he wasn’t relieved when the lights came on. Now, they’re all squished and sweaty and Bev’s skirt is already wrinkled, so Stan takes his rightful place in the passenger seat. Eddie’s sat in the middle of the backseat, watching the farmland roll past through Mike’s window.

They settle into Bill’s living room, which has already been set up with copious amounts of blankets and sleeping bags because Mrs. Denbrough is an angel. Eddie takes his usual loveseat and sprawls, legs hanging off of the end. Bev doesn’t even ask before opening Netflix and queuing up the first season of Riverdale.

“This show sucks,” Stan complains.

“I know,” Bev agrees easily, but she presses play regardless.

(By the third episode, Stan is enthralled. Bill makes fun of him until Stan makes a rather rude comment about Archie being the more attractive redhead, which shuts Bill up quite effectively.)

Eddie’s dozing on the loveseat when Bill’s phone rings and interrupts yet another unnecessary sex scene, much to Bev’s annoyance. She pauses the show, and she and Stan both send Bill matching, mutinous glares. Bill waves them away. He frowns at his phone when he sees who’s calling, answering with a confused, “Sally?”

Eddie is immediately awake.

“No, I...is he okay?”

“What’s happening?” Mike asks around a mouthful of popcorn. Bill makes a vague gesture in Mike’s general direction, which. Helpful.

“No, yeah, I can...can you send me the address? Yes. I’ll be there in ten minutes, hold on. It’s fine, really. Okay. Okay. See you soon. Bye.”

“Bill,” Stan says, wary. 

“Richie’s, uh, really drunk,” Bill says, “I told Sally I’d come get him. He’s too big for her to hold up, and she’s been drinking too.”

Stan frowns. “Is he okay?”

Bill shrugs, a little helpless. “Maybe? Gotta go get him to find out, I guess.”

“I’ll go with you,” Mike volunteers, and Bill nods. The two disappear into the foyer, the jingle of Bill’s keys following them out. Then the door shuts, and Stan, Bev, and Eddie sit in silence for a moment. 

“What a jackass,” Bev mutters, slumping against Bill’s couch. 

Stan checks his phone, says, “Shit. Richie texted me like, ten times.”

“He’s probably fine,” Eddie says, uncertain. 

“Yeah,” Stan says, distant.

They put the show back on, but it's mostly just for background noise. None of them can focus, not that Eddie was particularly intrigued to begin with. He can’t stop thinking about Richie’s mom and the alcoholism that destroyed her family. Can’t stop thinking about how addiction is genetic. Richie used to purposely not allow himself to get drunk. Sure, he’d get tipsy and have a little fun, but behind all of the tasteless and ill-timed jokes, Richie was always terrified he’d end up like his mom.

Between this and the homecoming game and the countless parties Richie’s reportedly been to, Eddie’s starting to wonder if maybe Richie’s stopped caring. 

Halfway through yet another scene where the main character’s shirt has mysteriously disappeared, Bill and Mike get back with Richie in tow. They’re propping him up like a giant puppet, his head lolling forward while he mumbes, “M’fine, m’fine, geddoff…”

“Man, shut up,” Mike says easily.

“Might throw up,” Richie slurs.

“Great,” Bill mutters, hauling Richie’s gigantic ass into the closest bathroom. 

Mike hovers by the door, looking worried. “He threw up on Bill’s lawn, too,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Fuckin’ gross.”

A particularly disgusting and _wet_ sound erupts from the bathroom, followed by Richie insisting rather loudly that he doesn’t want or need water. Stan lets out an annoyed huff and scrambles towards the bathroom, because Stan is a better man than all of them. No surprise there. Bev rolls her eyes and flops onto the floor, short hair splaying around her head like a halo. Eddie eases down next to her, curling up on his side. 

Bev throws half of her blanket over top of Eddie, lets her head roll towards him. “What a goddamn idiot.” Eddie nods, worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Bev’s expression softens and she grabs his hand under the covers. “He’ll be okay.”

“It’s just…” Eddie stops, unable to properly articulate all the terrifying bullshit swirling around in his brain.

Bev’s answering smile is sad. “His mom.”

Eddie nods. Of course Bev gets it. She’s probably just as scared as Eddie. She’s always been better at hiding it.

Bev blows out a breath, turning to stare up at the ceiling. She squeezes Eddie’s hand once, says, “I remember the first time and only time he got drunk. Before this year, I mean. We were fourteen and so fucking stupid. We snuck into his house at like, God, probably two in the morning. Well-past curfew, obviously.” She laughs, but there’s not humor in it. “His dad was waiting up. Could probably smell the alcohol on us. God, he was so mad. I’ve never seen Went lose it like that, especially not at Richie.

“The whole thing ended with both of them crying. Mags was hovering in the kitchen, wrapped up in this fluffy blue bathrobe. She looked so fuckin’ _sad_ , Eddie. Went just kept saying that he wanted _better_ for Richie. It was the first time I realized something was really fucking wrong, you know? So wrapped up in my own family bullshit.”

“That’s not fair to you, Bev,” Eddie says quietly, “Your family bullshit was pretty, uh...heavy.”

Bev barks out a sharp laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

They both look up as Stan tiptoes over to them, looking a little harried. “Eddie,” Stan whispers, “It’s okay if you don’t...if you don’t want to, but...he keeps asking for you. Might get him to shut up and go the fuck to sleep if you show face for a second.”

Eddie sighs. Bev squeezes his hand tight enough to bruise before letting go, a clear dismissal. Eddie sits up, takes a second to feel outrageously sorry for himself, and follows Stan to the bathroom. 

He’s just about to push the bathroom door open when Richie lets out something like a sob. Eddie startles, wide eyes snapping to Stan. Stan shrugs, looking just as alarmed. Eddie pauses with his hand on the door, heart falling into his stomach.

“It’s okay, Richie,” Bill’s saying softly, pleading, “Shh, R-Rich, it’s okay, bud.”

“Why didn’t he want me?” Richie gasps out, and his voice sounds raw. “What did I do?”

“Richie--”

“All I did was love him and he didn’t...he didn’t want me, he didn’t want me anymore so I left and now he hates me...he fuckin’ hates me, Bill.”

“He doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t hate you, okay?”

Eddie feels like he’s about to vomit all over the Denbrough’s nice, beige carpet. Stan holds fast onto Eddie’s elbow, a steadying presence. “Is he talking about me?” Eddie whispers, horrified.

Stan, for the first time that Eddie’s ever seen, looks utterly helpless. “He kept saying your name before I left. I don’t know who else he could be talking about.”

Inside the bathroom, Richie chokes out, “I miss ‘im...so fuckin’ much. I can’t breathe. I miss ‘im.”

Eddie lets his head fall lightly against the cedar door, eyes closed against an onslaught of tears he has no hope of controlling. He takes a deep breath, and he listens as Richie cries himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **an underage character is very drunk in this chapter. a character throws up, but there's no detail because i hate throw up lmao.
> 
> sorry!!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i went back and did a little reformatting just for funzies. now every chapter has some corresponding song lyrics in the beginning, all of which belong to songs that belong to the playlist i have for this fic! they're all wonderful songs and you should check 'em out!
> 
> it’s such a tragedy  
> when people hardly speak.  
> try to live up to the person  
> you pretend to be.  
> -mr. know-it-all, young the giant

Eddie wakes up to hushed conversation. It takes him a second to process, because why is anyone in his room? Even his mother knows not to just barge in. It’s like the one boundary she actually kind of respects. 

Then he remembers that, oh yeah, he’s at Bill’s, and everything fucking sucks.

He’s somehow managed to fall into the crevice of the loveseat, stuck between the cushions and the back of the couch, leg sticking out at an awkward angle. Someone has thrown a blanket precariously over him, which. Nice. Eddie can already tell that the room is too bright without even cracking an eyelid open.

“You really don’t remember what you did last night?”

Stan. Of course Stan is awake.

“I don’t even remember how I got here.”

Richie. Great.

“You were belligerently drunk and ruined our quiet evening in.”

“Pretty par for the course, I’d say.”

“You also cried yourself to sleep over Eddie.”

“I repeat. Par for the course, dude.”

“He heard you.”

“Oh, sick,” Richie sighs. “We had an actual, semi-positive conversation last night and I had to go ruin it with my fuckin’ _feelings_.” Another sigh. “Think I could get away with just pretending I don’t remember it?”

“You _don’t_ remember it.”

“Exactly! Not even a lie. Foolproof. Flawless. We’ll just pretend you didn’t tell me.”

There’s a pause, in which Eddie imagines that Stan is giving Richie one of his famous (and deadly) unimpressed stares. 

“Stan, please. I know you owe me jackshit, but...I would really appreciate if you could cover for me this one last time.” 

Stan snorts. “Don’t even pretend this is the last time I’ll have to cover for your stupid ass, Tozier.”

It’s the closest Stan will ever get to saying _I forgive you._ The following silence drags on long enough that Eddie thinks maybe they’ve fallen back asleep, before there’s a swift rustle and a thump. Stan lets out a tiny _oof_ , and Eddie cracks open one eye. Richie, in all his gangly glory, has wrapped himself around Stan in a hug that could rival a Hallmark movie reunion scene. Stan sighs, exasperated, but he clutches at the back of Richie’s shirt like a lifeline. 

“You do realize that even if you pretend not to remember it, he’ll still know it happened. Because he was there.”

Richie disentangles himself slowly and hunches over, trying valiantly to compress all six foot two of him into something small. “Eddie’s really good at pretending something didn’t happen. He’ll probably be glad for the excuse.”

What the fuck does that mean?

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten. Then, he makes a big show of waking up. Yawning, stretching, blinking. Never let it be said that Eddie can’t act. He sits up with some difficulty, flailing a bit in his efforts to remove himself from the crevice. Stan watches him with a vague sort of amusement. Richie has taken to staring at the carpet like it holds all the secrets to the universe.

“Mornin’,” Eddie says, voice thick with sleep. The sun glints off of Richie’s glasses and Eddie remembers a hundred other mornings like this, waking up surrounded by his favorite people. 

“Good morning,” Stan replies.

Richie remains silent. Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t be rude, Richie,” Eddie says, faking nonchalance. He throws a pillow at Richie’s head.

“Sorry,” Richie croaks out, not even bothering to duck. He accepts his punishment of a pillow to the face like a man walking into war. “Morning, Eddie.”

“You look like shit,” Eddie offers, pulling a hand through his own hair. He is disgusted to pull away with it covered in day-old gel. Fuck, he needs a shower.

“Feel like shit.” Richie glances up finally, and a fond little smile makes its way to his face. “You have a piece of hair sticking straight up.”

Eddie smooths down his hair, feels his face grow a little hotter. Stan glances between them with a pained expression. 

A few seconds later, Mrs. Denbrough comes padding down the stairs in a bathrobe that matches her decor. “My early risers! Oh, hello, Richie. I didn’t know you were here.” She smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s good to see you again, sweetheart. It’s been a minute.”

Richie’s smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Eddie blinks and he’s sitting at the Uris’s kitchen table, having almost the exact same exchange with Stan’s mom. The thought sits uncomfortably in the pit of Eddie’s stomach.

The glorious smell of whatever Mrs. Denbrough is making wafts into the living room and wakes the rest of their friends up one by one. Bev shoots Richie a wicked grin and asks, “How’s the headache, idiot?”

Richie responds by throwing Eddie’s pillow at her face. She cackles and ducks out of the way just in time. It hits Mike’s foot instead. When Richie flops onto his back dramatically, Bev’s smile fades. She looks at Eddie and shakes her head almost imperceptibly. It’s not the time to lecture or intervene. Eddie doubts it would mean anything coming from him, anyway. Miserably, he sinks back into his crevice and steadfastly ignores Richie for the remainder of the morning. 

If Richie wants to pretend nothing happened, then fine. Eddie will play the part and forget that anything did.

-

When Bill drops Eddie off at home after breakfast, Eddie takes a deep breath and stares up at his house. It’s eleven so, conceivably, his mom could still be asleep. But Eddie knows that’s just wishful thinking, because his mother probably didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.

He walks towards the front door like a man walking to the gallows, head bent and hands shoved deep in his pockets. When he goes inside, he expects to hear screaming, sobbing, anything to make him feel like the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth.

Instead, what he finds is a sad, shell of a woman, crying quietly in her rocking chair.

She doesn’t even look up, just wrings her hands in her lap. Tear tracks run down her cheeks like scars. The TV is muted in the background, playing reruns of an old game show that doesn’t even air anymore. Eddie stands awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to say. 

In the end, Eddie trudges upstairs and tries not to feel like he’s bleeding out all over the hardwood. 

-

For one blessed, quiet week, Eddie gets to pretend everything is mostly normal.

He takes pride in the fact that he has been extremely civil all week. Even Ben looks a little impressed, and that’s usually Eddie’s marker for success. Nodding in the hallway, the occasional smile, a brief “hey” whenever they pass each other. All things considered, Eddie thinks he’s being very mature and not at all passive aggressive, thanks.

So what if maybe Eddie had thought they’d finally hash everything out and go back to some semblance of normalcy? That maybe Richie would apologize for being such an asshole and, you know, _breaking Eddie’s heart?_ That maybe, just maybe, Richie felt even half of the anguish Eddie’s had bubbling in this gut since this whole shit storm began?

But no. When the safe cover of a drunken night was ripped away, Richie had ran. Just like always.

Whatever. Two can play at that game, and Eddie’s a much faster runner than Richie.

The problem with that plan, however, is that Eddie never thought to run from _Stan._

In retrospect, he should have expected this. Should have known that in the end, Stan’s love for Richie would win out over his need to be the pettiest motherfucker in their friend group. Richie had extended an olive branch and Stan had met him halfway, offering a chance to explain and a shoulder to lean on. 

So when Stan corners him under the bleachers in gym with a determined glint in his eyes, Eddie sighs and plops down on the concrete.

“We need to talk.”

Eddie gestures vaguely in his direction, feeling inexplicably exhausted. “About what, Stanley?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Eddie, it doesn’t suit you.”

Eddie sighs again, more deeply this time. “You want to talk about Richie, because you hate me.”

“Yes,” Stan says, deadpan and dry, “I am a horrible person who loves to see my friends suffer.”

Eddie laughs a little, reaches out to kick at Stan’s foot. “Sit down. I hate when you hover over me. We get it, you’re tall, Jesus Christ.”

“Everyone’s taller than you,” Stan says easily. He settles down gingerly beside Eddie, though not before pointedly brushing the dirt away. Eddie snorts, because Stan spends sixty percent of his time sliding through piles of dirt to catch a fucking baseball. 

“Richie and I had a really long talk the other day.”

Eddie flicks a bug away from his foot. “Do tell.”

“You and he have...very contradicting reasons as to why your relationship imploded.”

Eddie frowns and finally looks up. Stan is sitting very still, face carefully blank. He’s staring straight ahead. Somewhere behind them, a bird chirps loudly. “You think I’m lying,” Eddie accuses, his heart in his throat. “I know Richie’s your best friend but Christ, Stanley--”

“Oh, fuck off, Eddie,” Stan says, without any heat. “I don’t think you’re lying, but I don’t think he’s lying either.”

“Then what--”

“You only know your side. He only knows his. The truth is somewhere in the middle,” Stan says, like it’s that simple. Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. “But we’ll never know the truth if you two idiots can’t manage to have a conversation.”

“We had a conversation the night of homecoming and it was fine! It was kind of nice, actually. I felt like…” Eddie swallows thickly. “I felt like I had him back, just for a second.” Stan levels him with a sympathetic look that Eddie absolutely hates and wants to wipe off immediately. “I really thought we were going to talk the next morning, okay. He was _crying_ , I wasn’t going to just let it go. I’m not an asshole.”

“Not all the time, at least.”

Eddie punches Stan in his stupid arm. “But then he woke up and decided to lie and you covered for him like an _asshole_ \--”

Stan claps his hands together suddenly and loud enough to draw the attention of several of their classmates. “I fucking _knew_ you were awake.”

“That’s not the point, Stanley!”

“Eddie, what did you want me to do?” Stan’s hands drop into his lap, expression hardening. “He’s my best friend. I missed him. I was angry because he was being an asshole but suddenly he was acting like himself again and I figured, fuck it. He deserves a chance to explain. Bill did the same thing for you, okay, so you can’t be pissed.” 

Stan crosses his arms tightly over his chest and looks pointedly away from Eddie, who now feels like the world’s biggest jackass. “M’not pissed,” Eddie says quietly, “Just really confused.”

Stan’s shoulder’s relax a little. He tilts his head towards Eddie, says, “Yeah, well. So is he.”

Eddie blows out a breath, mutters, “He’s got a girlfriend, anyway. Doesn’t matter much now.”

“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t be friends again,” Stan shoots back, knocking his knee against Eddie’s. “Besides, I don’t think he’s that into her.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks lightly, trying to sound disinterested. He’s banking on Stan assuming it’s because he’s still interested in Richie and not because he’s trying to figure out just how much Stan knows about Sally.

(It’s both. It’s totally both. He has no self-preservation instinct. Evolution must have skipped over Eddie Kaspbrak, because goddamnit, he is still _so_ interested in Richie Tozier.)

Stan goes very still. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, like he’s weighing his options. “How could he be into Sally,” Stan begins, voice incredibly careful, “when he’s not over you?”

Eddie honest to God squeaks.

“Look,” Stan sighs, “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him. Fucking talk to each other. You’re making yourselves miserable and it’s depressing to watch.” He stands up abruptly, just as Mr. Poole blows his whistle to signal it’s time to go inside and change. Stan pauses, glances down at Eddie, who is already in the midst of an internal crisis. “Just talk to him. Please.”

With that, Stan leaves Eddie breathing heavily under the bleachers, wondering what the everloving fuck just happened.

He sits and tries to calm his heartbeat well past the bell ringing. He’s missing English and Bev’s going to be worried but he can’t make himself stand up. He’s not even sure he would be able to at this point. He feels dizzy from all of the information that’s been unceremoniously dumped on him by Stanley, who has the same amount of tact as a piece of toast. 

“Fuck,” Eddie says aloud.

How could Richie possibly be confused? It had all seemed pretty straightforward when he’d showed up on Eddie’s porch in the rain and told Eddie he _couldn’t do this anymore._ He’d been crying almost as hard as the rain had been falling, curls plastered to his forehead.

Eddie had not cried. Eddie had said, in the calmest voice he could muster, “Okay.”

Eddie had shut the door, went upstairs, and fell asleep. He didn’t have enough in him to feel anything beyond the dead weight of exhaustion keeping him pinned to his bed. He hadn’t left his room for six days, missing a whole week of school and staring, unseeing, at his ceiling the whole while. 

When he’d gotten back, Richie was already sitting several tables and lightyears away. He was closed off, and nasty, and he looked at Eddie like he was nothing more than the dirt under his shoe. Stan and Bev had demanded answers for the sudden shift, which made Richie exile himself even further. And Eddie had all but forgotten how to make his voice work, so he was no help.

They’d crawled towards the end of the school year, tense and bitter and broken. Eddie withdrew so deeply into himself he felt like he didn’t even exist at all. The summer creeped in slowly, but Eddie could never quite warm up. The world was dulled and Eddie was tired. On the last day of school, all of Eddie’s remaining friends had gone down to the quarry to swim like old times. Eddie had gone home, crawled into his bed, and didn’t leave until September.

Eddie’s made a lot of progress since then. He’s mostly okay. He has his friends back, and he talks to them about his issues instead of shoving them into a deep corner of his mind and going blank. His grades are pretty solid, he sees a therapist on the regular, and he’s learning to stand up for himself.

But he isn’t over Richie. 

And, if Stan is to be believed (and he usually is), Richie’s not over Eddie.

 _He talks about you a lot,_ Sally had said.

He’s so tired. He wants to end this, one way or another. He wants to know what Richie’s so _confused_ about, why he thought breaking up with Eddie was the only solution to their steady decline. 

Which means he has to talk to Richie.

“Fuck,” Eddie says again.

-

Eddie goes home in a daze, nearly crashing his bike into his neighbor’s fence at one point. It’s not his proudest moment.

His mother isn’t in her usual spot when he gets inside, which immediately sets off alarms in Eddie’s brain. There’s a small _ahem_ from the dining room that they don’t use, and when Eddie looks over, she’s sitting at the head of the table with a small smile. 

Eddie is immediately wary.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, all saccharine and gooey. It makes the hair on Eddie’s arms stand up. “Come sit and talk to mommy.”

Eddie nods, just a jolt of the head. He lowers himself into the seat next to her and attempts a smile. “How was your day, Ma?”

“Oh, it was fine, Eddie-bear, thank you for asking.” His mother takes his hand in hers and squeezes a little too tight. Eddie barely holds in a wince. “How was school? You look a little peaked, sweetheart.”

“It was good. Nothing special happened.”

His mother sighs deeply, looks wistfully out the window. Eddie holds his breath.

“I feel like we don’t talk anymore, Eddie. You’re always out. We had such a nice summer together, just the two of us, didn’t we?”

Eddie swallows thickly and stares a hole into the table. “Yes, mom.”

She draws in a long, shuddery breath and brings her free hand up to press against her heart. “I feel like I’m losing you, Eddie-bear. It breaks my heart to think you’d ever leave me all alone in this big, empty house.”

His mother turns her head just then, watery eyes boring into him like a bullet. In that moment, Eddie hates her so much he could scream. 

“Of course I won’t leave you,” he says, voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“I love you so much, Eddie,” his mother coos, finally releasing her death grip on his hand in order to brush a strand of hair out of his face. Her fingers settle in his hair, and it sends him reeling into the past, back when his dad was still alive and his mother was still something close to a _mom_. She’d kiss him goodnight on his forehead, smelling not of antiseptic but of a sweet perfume his dad used to buy her. She’d lightly scratch his head with her manicured nails and hum until he’d drift off to sleep, feeling safe and so loved.

And then his dad died, after a long and drawn out battle with a cancer that infected everything it could reach. Turned her into the horrible, _terrified_ woman she is today.

She’s sick, too, Eddie reminds himself.

“I love you, too,” Eddie tells her, impressed with how even he manages to keep his voice.

She watches him for a long moment, offers him the first real smile he’s seen on her face in years. “You look so much like your dad. Just as handsome. Just as sweet.”

She clears her throat and drops her hand, and just like that, the spell is broken and so are the remains of their family. “So,” she continues, forcefully cheerful, “What would you like to do for your birthday?”

Eddie freezes. “My birthday?”

His mother raises an eyebrow. “It’s tomorrow, dear. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Eighteen! Such a big deal.”

“Eighteen,” Eddie repeats, voice distant.

“Eighteen,” his mother repeats, and the nervous edge is back in her voice. 

Eddie goes to bed that night feeling very, very weird. In a few hours, he’ll be an adult with money and a car, capable of doing whatever he fucking wants. The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating. He opens his window just a crack, lets the cool air calm his nerves as he climbs under the covers. 

The feeling of hope curling in his stomach, the thought of having _options_ other than living under his mother’s thumb, is enough to lull him to sleep.

-

Eddie wakes up shivering. 

He can hear his mother bustling around downstairs, hears the TV turned to the local news station. Birds chirp outside, louder than usual. Leaves rustle against his window, and Eddie opens his eyes to this new day.

It is Eddie Kaspbrak’s eighteenth birthday, and the whole entire world is waiting for him.

He sits up, sheds his blankets, ignoring the goosebumps. His room looks the same. He looks the same.

Eddie Kaspbrak is not the same.

He still has to go to school, though, which. Bummer. The world will have to wait.

Eddie goes to close his window when he notices several things at once. First, the window is pushed higher than he’d left it, which is a little alarming. Second, there are Reese’s Cups taped loosely and haphazardly against the inside of his window. Eddie takes a few seconds to count them. 

Eighteen.

Third, there is a note on Eddie’s window sill.

His room smells different, more like home than it usually does. Eddie’s first thought is Bill, but no. Bill is a wonderful friend, the best Eddie’s ever had, but he is most definitely not this thoughtful. 

Which means.

Maybe.

Eddie picks up the note. It’s shoved inside an envelope that’s too small, taped closed to make sure it stays put. On it, in a familiar chicken-scratch that makes Eddie’s heart flip, someone has written _eds_.

He rips it open, heart pounding. 

_e,_

_happy 18th, eds. hope this year makes you happy and these reeses make you smile._

_r._

Eddie takes a deep, measured breath. He folds the note up very carefully and puts it under his mattress where his mother will never find it, mostly because she can’t lift it. Then he goes to work unsticking eighteen individually wrapped Reese’s and trying to keep the stupid smile off of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eddie is officially 18! richie's trying! everyone is confused! stay tuned y'all!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a minute, friends! school has been crazy so i apologize for the delayed update but it's here now so pls enjoy!!
> 
> and i see the end, i'm slipping from the ledge.  
> i pray to gods i don't believe in for a sign,  
> some reasons not to die.  
> and there you are.  
> -reasons not to die, ryn weaver

Eddie pads down the stairs with an extra spring in his step, two Reese's cups smushing against each other in his front pocket. His mother stands in the kitchen, holding a stack of pancakes with extra whip cream and wearing a smile that looks at least mostly genuine. “Happy birthday, Eddie,” she says, and her voice is fond. She gestures to the pancakes and looks almost sheepish as she adds, “I figured today was a special day.”

It sounds like it hurts her to say it, but Eddie smiles.

“Thanks, mom,” he says, and for first time in what feels like forever, he actually kind of means it.

His mother immediately looks pleased with herself. “Of course, honey. Only the best for my boy.”

They eat breakfast together, and it’s nice. His mom still watches every bite he takes with the utmost concentration, like she’s afraid he’ll choke. But she smiles at him, and they make small talk, and Eddie thinks maybe they’ll be okay. Maybe she’ll finally meet him halfway.

His mother’s smile goes stale as he grabs the keys. She can’t say no, and they both know it. Eddie keeps his eyes forward and tries not to think about the guilt pooling in his stomach. “Love you, Ma. See you at dinner!” he calls, all but running out the door. The door clicks shut behind him, a little louder than originally intended. Eddie lets out a shaky breath.

He drives to school for the first time ever, and he blasts the radio the whole way. The world feels new, brighter. He could drive past the school and just _keep driving_ , and no one would be able to stop him. 

Not that he’d ever do it, of course. School is important and shit. His friends would miss him. Whatever. The point is, Eddie is as free as he’s going to get while he’s still living under his mother’s roof and it feels _amazing_.

The second he’s out of his car, a large body tackles him. Mike curls strong arms around Eddie and lifts him off of the ground, scream-singing _happy birthday_ at the top of his lungs. Eddie laughs, face splitting into an easy grin.

“Holy shit, Michael, you’re gonna break him.”

Richie leans casually against the car opposite Eddie’s, cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. His other hand is stuffed deep in his pocket and his shoulders are tense, but he’s smiling. The November breeze rustles his hair. He looks a little nervous, a little bit hopeful.

Eddie can’t help but smile back. “Richie,” he says, “Hey.” His voice is embarrassingly breathy and if anyone says anything, he’s going to blame it all on Mike shaking him around like a goddamned chew toy.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie says, and its soft, sends Eddie reeling a little. Jesus Christ. “Happy birthday.”

Mike looks between the two of them with eyebrows raised high, and Richie clears his throat, looks at the ground. Mike sends Eddie his very best _what the fuck_ look. All Eddie can do is shrug because, yeah, what the fuck indeed. He doesn’t know either, but he’s pretty excited to figure it out.

“Thanks,” Eddie says. Ben rounds the corner behind Richie, but he freezes the second he sees Eddie talking to Richie _voluntarily_. His eyes are wide, but not nearly as wide as his smile. He sends Eddie a very exaggerated thumbs up and slowly backs a few steps away. 

“‘Course.” Richie’s eyes crinkle around the corners.

Huh. Bev was right, all those weeks ago. _His smiles aren’t real_ , she’d said.

This one, though. This one is, and it’s all for Eddie.

“No, I mean,” Eddie cuts himself off, takes a few steps forward. Presses a Reese’s cup into Richie’s hand. “ _Thanks._ ”

Richie’s answering smile is blinding. 

“Any time,” he says, and its quiet. Sincere and painfully earnest. Richie’s fingers curl around the candy, and Eddie can’t even remember the last time they were this close on purpose. Richie still smells the same; nicotine and douchey cologne and mint toothpaste, because Richie is shit at taking care of himself for the most part but goddamn if he doesn’t brush after every meal. “Eds, could we maybe--”

“EDWARD FUCKIN’ KASPBRAK!”

That’s all the warning he gets before Bill crashes into him, laughing and singing and hugging Eddie so hard he feels like his head might pop off from the pressure. Mike lets his head drop, exasperated. Eddie laughs and allows himself to be shaken like a rag doll, tries to stamp down the little twinge of disappointment from the loss of a moment he and Richie might not get back.

“Happy birthday, my best friend, my brother, my favorite human on this floating chunk of space rock--”

“How old is too old for shaken baby syndrome?” Stanley asks mildly, appearing by Richie’s side like a ghost.

“Eddie is pretty tiny,” Ben allows.

“Fuck you guys!” Eddie protests. He wiggles rather dramatically until Bill sets him down, face a little flushed and shirt bunched up. Richie coughs and looks away, which. Huh.

Stan’s blank expression cracks into a grin. “Congrats on your recent birth,” he says, and Richie lets out a bark of laughter that leaves Stan looking extremely pleased.

“Thanks, Stanley,” Eddie says dryly, feeling impossibly fond. He watches Richie duck his head and shake his hair out, glasses sliding further down his nose. Golden brown eyes meet his through duct-taped lenses. Around them, their friends begin making plans for Eddie’s inevitably ridiculous birthday celebration. Richie presses the Reese’s cup against his heart and smiles softly.

Bill drapes himself over Eddie’s back, arms coming up to lock around his shoulders and chin resting on the top of his head. Eddie leans back, comfortable and easy, lets the sun shine on his face. “My house is open,” Bill offers, drawing Eddie back into the conversation, “We could go there, order pizza, drink a little.”

“Or a lot,” Mike grins, slapping Bill on the back hard enough to almost knock him and Eddie both over.

Eddie huffs out a laugh. “My mom’s making me have dinner with her, so it’ll have to be after.”

Stan lets out a long suffering sigh. “Sonia strikes again.”

Richie opens his mouth, and then promptly shuts it. It’s a level of control that Eddie has truly never seen before, and it’s kind of amazing. Instead, Richie leans against a stranger’s car and starts to hum _Bigmouth Strikes Again_ under his breath until Stan rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll just leave when she inevitably passes out after dinner,” Eddie says, and he twirls his car keys around his pointer finger with the cheekiest grin he can manage. “Not like she can stop me.”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah,” Mike yells, just as Bill shouts, “Hear, hear!” straight into Eddie’s ear.

Richie stays quiet, fidgety but smiling, like one misstep will mean instant exile from this carefully casual friendship bubble. Eddie’s used to a constant stream of consciousness from Richie, a second-by-second update of every thought that crosses his mind. It’s strange watching him now; Richie, when he’s his most authentic self, wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions right on his face. Eddie can see every flinch, every eyebrow twitch that means Richie’s thoughts are running a mile a minute with no outlet. 

Distantly, Eddie wonders if Richie’s taking his ADHD medication regularly. Eddie was always the one to remind him.

“Rich,” Eddie says, and the air around them goes still. Richie’s head snaps up, and for a second he looks utterly terrified before schooling his face into ridiculous, neutral expression. Eddie keeps his voice as casual as possible, asks, “Do you need a ride tonight?”

Richie gapes a little, and Eddie bites down a comment about bugs flying into his mouth. “Uh,” Richie says intelligently. Stan elbows him in the side, _hard_. Richie drops his cigarette in surprise and watches it fall with an endearingly dumb look on his face. “Uh, I--” He clears his throat, offers a tiny smile. “I think I’ll be able to charm Mags into letting me use her car for the night.”

Eddie smiles back, tries to ignore the way his heart is about to beat out of his chest. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Richie repeats, and he shakes his hair out again like he always does when he’s nervous.

“Cool,” Stan adds, just to be an asshole. Eddie rolls his eyes.

They day goes by quickly after that; Bev finds him just after homeroom and presents him with the most meticulously decorated cupcake Eddie has ever _seen_. It’s impressive as fuck, and he tells her as much. It earns him a rare pleased smile and a kiss on the cheek. In French, Sally gives a tight hug and a sincere _happy birthday_. It’s...kind of nice. There’s a weird moment where he even considers inviting her to Bill’s, but. He figures Richie deserves a night where he doesn’t have to pretend.

He drives home, and the world feels a little darker with every mile he gets closer to his house. He swallows down the impending sense of doom and pulls into his driveway, tries to remember the genuine way his mother had smiled this morning. Hope for the best, expect the worst.

Eddie turns the car off and sits for a moment, lets the end of the song play. He takes a deep breath and walks into his house with lead feet.

“Hello, birthday boy!” his mother sing-songs from the living room. She’s sat in her usual spot, hands clasped together in her lap. Eddie bends down to kiss her cheek. “How was your day?”

“Hi, Ma,” Eddie says. He offers a smile, adds, “It was good. Bev made me a cupcake.”

His mother’s smile goes tight around the edges, but Eddie’s kind of impressed that the combination of Beverly _and_ sugar didn’t send her into a fit. He settles onto the couch and watches Family Feud with her until the sun starts to set. It’s...okay. They guess answers and high-five when they get them correct. It’s not exactly how Eddie wants to spend his birthday but. It’s a start.

She gets up to make dinner and Eddie sinks into the couch, thinking. In a few hours, he’ll be with his friends. He’ll be with _Richie_ , which is weird. He thinks maybe they’ve reached a truce but he can’t be sure until he, you know, _talks to Richie_ , which is terrifying in its own right. 

Were the Reese’s a love declaration? An olive branch? Is Richie trying to like...court him, or are they only ever destined to be friends? And if that’s the case, could they ever be _best_ friends again? Because Eddie has been consistently confused since Richie barreled back into his life, but the only thing that continues to make any sense is that Eddie’s world is off its axis when Richie isn’t in it.

His phone beeps once. It’s a text from Ben, and all it says is _i’m so proud of you_ with a little purple heart emoji. Eddie presses his phone to his chest and smiles.

He must fall asleep because some time later, his mother gently shakes him awake to let him know that dinner is ready. God, he can’t even remember the last time she made spaghetti. It was his dad’s favorite, Eddie knows that much.

They settle down at the dining table, Eddie piling food onto his plate like he hasn’t eaten in days. His mother doesn’t comment, which is odd.

He should know by now to expect it when the other shoe drops.

“Eddie,” his mother says, and there’s a weird edge to her voice that always means trouble. “I found a university brochure in your room.”

Eddie freezes. “You went in my room?”

“Only to put your clothes away. It was in your sock drawer,” his mother says quickly, before she frowns and adds, “That’s hardly the point, honey.”

Eddie shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “It’s no big deal. The guidance counselor gave it to me and I just...didn’t throw it away.”

His mother makes a distracted noise, says, “Eddie, dear, don’t talk with your mouth full.” Her gaze drops down to her lap, but Eddie knows that look. She’s not going to let this go. “It was for New York City, Eddie.”

“Ma,” Eddie sighs, “It’s no big deal, okay? Really.”

Her frown deepens. She pins him in place with a scrutinizing look, eyes narrowed and dangerous. “You’re lying,” she accuses, and that’s just about all Eddie can take.

He lets his fork drop onto his plate with a loud clatter, metal against porcelain. It echoes through the tiny dining room. “Fine, Jesus. You caught me. I want to go to _college_ , Mom, is that really so bad?”

“You are going to college, sweetheart, Derry Community has a lovely accounting program--”

“I want to study psychology,” Eddie snaps, “And you’d know that if you ever actually _talked to me_ instead of just talking over me.”

His mother takes a long sip of her water, presses a hand against her heart like she’s trying to calm down. A terrible feeling of _wrongness_ pools in his gut at the sight, knowing that he’s the issue. He’s the stressor. His mouth clamps down around a guilty apology, and he swallows it back like medicine. 

“Psychology is nonsense, Edward,” his mother says, voice rising, “And of course I listen to you, sweetheart. I know you better than anyone. You’re my _baby_ , I’m you’re _mother_. I know how to take care of you, Eddie-bear. New York is so dirty, you would never--”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and cuts her off sharply. “You don’t know anything about me, mom. You know the parts you molded into me and you ignore the parts you don’t like.”

“Eddie.” She says his name like a plead, a prayer. “Honey, I know you, and I love every last bit of you. There’s nothing about you I don’t like. I’m your mother.”

Bile rises high in his throat. He’s choking on the nausea. Fuck, he wants to believe her so badly it hurts. He wants, more than anything, for her to know every part of him and love him anyway.

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

Eddie does because at his core, he is scared and sad and he wants his fucking mother.

“Eddie, my darling boy. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. There is nothing you could do that would make me love you any less, you must know that.”

“Mom, I’m gay.”

It’s out before he can stop it, a projectile phrase fueled by nothing but pure emotion and stupidity. He regrets it the second he says it but he can’t take it back, not now. His mother’s face is frozen in shock. For a long moment, they only stare at each other. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room and Eddie has been left to suffocate in a vacuum. 

Then, “Oh, Eddie. Baby. Come here.”

Eddie almost falls out his chair trying to get to his mother. She stands up just in time to catch him in a tight hug as he all but throws himself into her arms. He doesn’t want to hope, he doesn’t want to let himself think that maybe--maybe she does love him enough. She pets his head gently, fingers carding through loose waves, just like she used to when he was little. Eddie vaguely recognizes that he’s crying, big, heaving sobs that shake the two of them like an earthquake. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll...we’ll fix you. There’s no need to be scared, darling, Mommy’s here. We’ll fix you.”

Eddie grows cold and the world drops out from under his feet.

He pulls away so fast he worries distantly about whiplash. His vision is blurry and he blinks, rapid and stitled. Time slows down. “I--what?”

His mother reaches out and smooths his hair down. It takes every bit of self control Eddie has not to lean into it. “You’re sick, honey, but Mommy will make it better.”

Eddie stumbles back abruptly, backing into the table hard enough to make the plates clatter. He takes a moment to steady himself, feels the earth moving without him. His legs are paper, caving under the weight of his body and his heart. “I have to go.” 

“Eddie--”

“I have to _go!_ ” Eddie yells hoarsely, and he bangs his fists against the wall hard enough to crack it. His hand is dripping red and his mother screams. Eddie grabs his phone off of the table and runs, pounding up the steps like hellhounds are chasing him.

He slams his door shut so forcefully that the walls around it shake. He leans against the wood, lets his legs give out. His body slides down to the floor, shaking hands scrambling to open his phone. Eddie opens the groupchat he’s had muted since last May with trembling fingers, now aptly titled _fuckheads anonymous_. 

He manages to type out _please help_ , which. Not super explanatory or at all helpful, but Eddie can’t think right now. His brain is stuck on a loop of _get out get out get out_ , dizzy and impossibly tired.

The text almost gets buried underneath Mike and Stan’s rapid-fire exchange concerning the ethics of almond milk, but then there’s Bill, kind, caring, patient Bill responding with an obnoxious string of question marks and Eddie’s name. Eddie swallows down the nausea and forces his frozen fingers to move.

_accidentally came out to mymom. can someon come get me i can’t drive rn_

Downstairs, he can hear his mother sobbing loudly. There’s a noise that sounds like plates breaking, one after the other, and Eddie flinches. The group chat floods with messages ranging from _are you okay???_ to _shit_ , which Eddie feels in his soul.

Then, a moment of clarity in the chaos. Richie sends _i’m on my way, eds. hold tight._ and Eddie stops holding his breath.

 _bring him to mine_ , stan says, followed by an endless amount of assurances that everyone is on their way and will meet him there. Eddie feels the knot in his chest loosen, just a litte, and he springs into action. He grabs his duffle bag from the back of his closet, unused since his last trip to his grandma’s before she died in ‘14. He makes quick work of shoving his clothes inside of it. It’s messy and unfolded and utterly chaotic, and Eddie knows that he should be attempting to maximize his space so everything will _fit_. It’s hard enough as it is to shove your entire life into one bag, and God knows he isn’t making it any easier on himself. But he can barely see through the haze of his tears and his throat feels like it’s closing up and Eddie can’t _think_ , let alone plan.

All of his school stuff is still in his backpack, his laptop, his charger, his favorite book. Shoes get thrown around like they’re nothing and church clothes stay firmly behind in his bottom drawer. Nonsensically, wildly, he shoves all of the fucking Reese’s cups from Richie into the front pocket of his backpack. 

He very carefully unsticks all the pictures assembled meticulously on his cork board; the one of him on Ben’s shoulders at the fair, the one of him and Bev smiling at the diner over milkshakes, the one of him, Stan, and Bill in the middle of an impromptu race around Mike’s garden. The one of him and Richie at the Barrens, looking at each other like there isn’t anyone else in the world. Eddie tucks them gently into his notebook and then throws that on top of his disorderly clothes pile. He zips up the duffle bag, and that’s that. All he can do is wait.

Eddie checks to make sure his door is locked before scrambling to the window just in time to see Richie pull up in his mom’s fancy SUV. He watches as Richie scrambles out of the car but leaves it running, glancing nervously towards Eddie’s window. Their eyes meet and Eddie throws his window open, leaning so far out he’s almost afraid he’ll fall.

“I’m coming down,” he calls, voice rough and scratchy from crying. “I’m gonna throw my shit down.”

Richie jogs closer and motions for Eddie to toss his bag. When Eddie does, Richie catches it with ease and only stumbles a little. Eddie takes a deep breath and shoulders his backpack, sticks one leg out the window until half of his body is outside. His foot lands on the branch closest to him and he reaches out to grab hold of another. It’s fucking terrifying. As often as Richie has scaled this tree like it’s nothing, Eddie has never used his own window as an exit to the outside world. He’s never even climbed a fucking tree. 

He glances down at Richie and the horror must be clear on his face because Richie holds up his arms and says, with such resolute warmth Eddie could cry, “I’m right here, E. I won’t let you fall. I got you.”

Eddie nods once, and suddenly he’s in a tree. It’s dark, he can’t _see_ , but Richie’s there and for some reason that makes him feel stupidly brave. He shimmies down from branch to branch slowly, carefully. When his feet finally touch the ground, Richie rushes forward, long arms wrapping around Eddie like shelter from the storm.

Eddie melts against him, cheek smushed up against Richie’s shoulder. He doesn’t think he could get closer if he tried. His fingers bunch up in the back of Richie’s jean jacket, fabric softened from years of use. “Thank you,” he manages to gasp out, but Richie just shakes his head and hugs him impossibly tighter.

“Let’s get you to Stan’s, yeah?”

The front door slams open, Eddie’s mother tripping out under the porchlight. She wraps her robe tight over her chest, eyes moving wildly until they settle on Richie and Eddie tangled up on her lawn. She lets out a horrible shrieking noise and bounds down the steps. Eddie flinches before he can stop himself. Richie’s face goes hard and he steps forward, pushes Eddie gently behind him.

“I should have known you’d be the one to ruin my little boy,” Eddie’s mother wails, pointing an accusing finger at Richie.

“A pleasure as always, Mrs. K,” Richie sneers. One of his hands is still wrapped up in the bottom of Eddie’s sweater. “You know, I really missed how shrill your voice gets when you scream.”

“Eddie, honey, come back inside,” she pleads, ignoring Richie, “It’s cold, sweetheart. Come back inside, Mommy will make it all better.”

Eddie presses his face against Richie’s back and lets out a shuddering breath. Richie’s hand moves from Eddie’s sweater to his wrist. He shoulders Eddie’s duffle bag and murmurs, “Let’s get outta here, okay?” Eddie feels himself nod, lets his hand slide into Richie’s like an anchor.

“ _Eddie_ , Eddie, please. Don’t leave me all alone, baby. You’re all I have.” His mother is openly sobbing, leaning against the railing of the stairs like it's the only thing keeping her upright. “Tell me what to do, I’ll make it right. I’ll fix it. Just don’t _leave_.”

Eddie’s entire body shudders. He’s rooted in place, the ghost of the family they could have been holding him down, suffocating him. Cold tears slide down his cheeks, shoulders shaking and legs locked. Richie spins around, takes Eddie’s face in both of his large hands. “Eds,” he says, voice desperate, “Eddie, baby, we have to leave. Okay? We have to go to Stan’s.”

Eddie nods again because he can’t speak. Richie dips down to press his forehead against Eddie’s for just a second, before grabbing hold of his wrist and guiding him towards the car. Eddie’s mother lets out a horrible moaning noise, but Eddie doesn’t let himself look back.

Richie closes the passenger door behind him and loads Eddie’s shit in the back seat. Eddie keeps his head turned forward. He stares down the street he grew up on, lit up by streetlights and families bustling inside houses. Richie climbs into the driver’s side and turns to Eddie, face drawn in worry. “Eddie--”

“I’m okay,” Eddie says. “I mean, I’m not, not at all, but. I just. Want to leave.”

Richie just nods once and throws the car into drive. They speed through the neighborhood Eddie knows like the back of his hand. They drive past the exact spot Bill once broke his leg, back in the third grade. Eddie had cried more than Bill had, and it had been a disaster. The whole time, Stan had held Bill’s hand while they waited for the ambulance and Bill’s parents. 

And Richie, well. Richie had held Eddie’s hand, his single-mindedness forcing him to use every bit of focus available to get Eddie to calm down. God, you would have thought _Eddie_ had broken his leg, the way the two of them were acting.

Eddie almost laughs, but it ends up sounding kind of strangled. Wordlessly, Richie offers his hand over the center console.

Eddie takes it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been 3 months. i have no excuse. sorry this chapter is a little short, it felt like the natural stopping point. 
> 
> thank you so much for all the kind comments and your endless patience. i love you all so much!! xoxo

go ahead and laugh, even if it hurts.  
go ahead and pull the pin. -heart, sleeping at last 

The ride to Stan’s house is silent, only the quiet hum of the engine to distract Eddie from his thoughts. Part of him wants Richie to just start _talking_ like he always does, but another part of him is grateful for the sudden and unexpected appearance of Richie’s tact.

The houses blur together--Stan doesn’t live far, only a few neighborhoods over, but it feels like Eddie’s been in this car for hours. Days, even. His heart is threatening to beat out of his chest and he’s definitely squeezing Richie’s hand a little too tightly, but Richie doesn’t seem to mind. He’s humming under his breath distractedly, staring straight ahead into the night. Streetlights illuminate Richie’s face, glinting against his glasses.

He drives the whole way one-handed, fingers intertwined with Eddie’s.

Richie’s fingers tap nervously against the steering wheel. Eddie watches him for a long moment. Suddenly and without thinking, Eddie says, “I’m glad it was you. That came and got me. I’m glad it was you.”

Richie nods once, resolute. “I’ll always come and get you,” he says, and when he glances over at Eddie, he offers a crooked little smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Whenever you call. I’ll pick up, and I’ll come get you.”

Something warm settles in the pit of Eddie’s stomach. “Me, too,” he says, voice a little strained, “For you, I mean. Any time of the day or night. If you needed me, I’d be there.”

Richie’s swallows thickly. His hand tightens around Eddie’s for a moment, and he clears his throat, says, “Thanks, Eddie.”

They pull up in front of Stan’s house and it’s only a moment before their friends are bursting out the front door, tripping over each other to get to the car. Bill gets there first, throws open the passenger door with a surprising amount of force, and pulls Eddie into a tight hug. The seat belt digs into Eddie’s shoulder uncomfortably but he hugs back, clinging to his best friend like a lifeline. Richie gets out of the car and reappears over Bill’s shoulder, face anxious. He grabs Eddie’s bag from the backseat, says, “Let’s get him inside.”

A protective circle forms around Eddie as they walk to the door, but all Eddie wants is to be holding Richie’s hand again. Bev’s arm through his is probably the next best thing, though.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Uris sighs, the second she sees him. She rushes forward and wraps him up in a warm hug. “You stay here as long as you need, Eddie. You’re always welcome here.”

“I couldn’t--” Eddie starts to protest weakly, but Mrs. Uris cuts him off before he can finish.

“Don’t be silly, we have a spare bedroom and it’s yours, if you want it.” 

Stan settles careful hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s okay to let people help you,” he says, in all his infinite wisdom. He cracks a tiny smile, adds, “You can pay us back by driving me to school.”

Eddie doesn’t trust himself to talk at the moment, so he nods and tries to discreetly wipe away at his wet eyes. Mrs. Uris swats goodnaturedly at Stan and rolls her eyes. From his place in the kitchen, hovering awkwardly behind the larger group, Mr. Uris clears his throat, says, “You’re safe here, son.”

Stan’s hand tightens on Eddie’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bill settle his palm against Stan’s lower back. It was a long, hard fight for Mr. Uris to accept his son’s sexuality, to accept that Bill was no longer just Stan’s nice, harmless little friend. That they were something real. Eddie knows this is...important.

He also knows this is something he will never get from his own mother.

“Thank you,” Eddie says, pours as much sincerity into his words as he can. Mr. Uris offers a tight smile and a nod before shuffling off into the living room. Mrs. Uris presses a hand to her heart and smiles.

“You kids go on down to the basement. I’ll order some pizzas.”

With a chorus of _thank yous_ , they descend into the depths of Stan’s bougie basement. Bill goes into the linen closet and promptly hands Eddie his favorite pink sherpa, which Eddie is now totally going to steal for his _room_ because Eddie has a _room_ at _Stan’s house_ now, which is. Wild.

Eddie settles down on the long couch, tucked against the arm. He watches as Richie falters just behind the rest, hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. Their eyes meet, and Richie freezes. Eddie wants more than anything for Richie to just confidently drop down beside him like he used to, throw an arm around the back of the sofa and lean in. He wants Richie to not have to _think_ about it. He wants to burrow his face into Richie’s shoulder and feel, just for a second, like his world isn’t crumbling around him.

But then the moment passes. Mike sits down next to Eddie, and Richie sits down onto the floor beside Bev. It’s a distance of maybe five feet, but it feels like miles and it speaks volumes.

Richie was just being a good friend, picking Eddie up. No underlying intentions, no grand gestures to win back Eddie’s heart. Richie wasn’t trying to be Eddie’s knight in shining armor. He was just being Richie. Kind, dependable Richie.

Message received.

He buries his face into his fluffy pink blanket and breathes deeply. It’s entirely possible that he’s being overdramatic, but fuck it. If there was ever a time he was goddamn _allowed_ to be overdramatic, it’s right now.

Nobody says anything for a few minutes. Everyone just keeps shooting annoyingly conspicuous looks Eddie’s way, waiting to see if he’ll cry or scream or...Eddie doesn’t even know, really. 

“Can y’all stop lookin’ at me?” Eddie mumbles into his blanket, eyes narrowed. Everyone except Bev looks away guiltily, like they’ve been caught eating a cookie before dinner or some stupid shit like that. “I’m not gonna break in half.”

“Well,” Bev says conversationally, “The last time something big happened in your personal life, you shut the world out and wallowed for six months. All in all, not the best way you could have handled it. I think we’re all just trying to make sure your process this in, like...a safe and constructive way.”

Richie elbows her in the side, looking affronted on Eddie’s behalf, but to be completely honest, Eddie appreciates her blunt honesty. He doesn’t need to be treated like a little glass figure, all fragile and delicate. Because he’s _not_ fragile and delicate; he’s a real person with real mental health issues and a shit way of coping, and he needs his friends to kick his ass into gear when necessary. 

So Eddie meets Bev’s gaze with a quiet resolution, says, “I won’t shut you guys out.”

Bev blows him a kiss and smiles softly. Beside him, Mike lets his head fall on top of Eddie’s. “Cuddling releases oxytocin,” he says, very seriously. “Get your ass over here, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie scoots closer, allows himself to be wrapped up in Mike’s massive football player arms. Ben wordlessly clicks on the TV, and they watch a few episodes of Parks and Rec before Stan has to go upstairs and help his mom with the pizzas. If Eddie closes his eyes and pretends really, _really_ hard, it almost feels like the good old days, as cliched and stupid as it sounds. Mike keeps his arm steadily around him. Bev throws popcorn across the room at Bill, giggling conspiringly with Ben. 

The only problem, really, is Richie.

He’s quiet, muted, glancing around like he isn’t sure he’s really _allowed_ to be here. Which is stupid, because Eddie explicitly invited him and, ex-boyfriend or not, Richie like...spy-extracted him from his shitty, abusive household. That has to count for something, right? Even if it’s just friendship.

Eddie will take friendship, as long as it means Richie’s back in his life.

So he throws his pillow at Richie’s head, nearly knocks off his glasses, and demands, “Tell me a joke.” 

Richie, glasses askew, hair fucked up, asks, “Exsqueeze me?”

“I’m sad,” Eddie tells him, “Make me laugh or I might cry.”

“Well, shit,” Bev says, “Can’t have that. Eddie’s a real ugly crier.”

Eddie gapes at her. Before he can verbalize his outrage, Richie asks, “What did the blanket say when it fell off the bed?” He pauses, shit-eating grin firmly in place, says, “Oh sheet!”

Eddie snorts, loud and attractive. Stanley cracks up like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. 

“That joke was shit, Rich,” Bill tells him.

Richie gestures grandly towards Eddie, says, “It made Eds laugh, so it’s the best joke I’ve ever told.” 

He shoots Eddie a blinding smile, bright-eyed and just between them. Something in Eddie’s stomach flutters madly and he feels himself melt, just a little. If it weren’t for the gaping hole his mother left in his chest, he might even believe everything was okay.

Mrs. Uris calls down for Stan, who takes the steps three at a time, very nearly tripping at the top. He comes back a few minutes later with several boxes of pizza balanced precariously in his arms. Bill, like the good boyfriend he is, rushes over to help him. They set them down on the coffee table, and flip the top open to reveal candles smushed into the crust and cheese haphazardly. Eddie groans, tries to cover his eyes, but Bill’s already lighting the candles and Mike pries Eddie’s hands away. 

Bev mashes her cheek against Eddie’s, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. They all start to sing _Happy Birthday_ horribly and off-key, Bill attempting to hit notes that only dogs should be able to hear. Richie sits hesitantly beside Eddie, one bony knee knocking against Eddie’s thigh. He’s singing quietly, hands settled in his lap, fingers twisting together. 

Eddie blows the candles out and wishes. He wishes _hard_ , wishes for peace and contentment and the feeling of Richie’s hand in his. The dark of the basement settles over him and Bev squeezes him tight enough to bruise. His friends clap and cheer, digging into the pizza with reckless abandon. 

Richie nudges Eddie with his elbow, offers a smile, whispers, “Happy Birthday, Eds.”

Eddie scoots an inch or so closer, lets his head drop onto Richie’s shoulder. He feels Richie’s sharp inhale, feels him stiffen, but he still smells the same, still fits against Eddie like he was never meant to be anywhere else. A few seconds pass. Just as Eddie is about to pull away, Richie gently rests his head on top of Eddie’s. His curls tickles Eddie’s forehead, and Eddie thinks, yeah. Maybe everything will be okay.


End file.
